Fic: Flesh and Bone
Title: Flesh and Bone
Author: Rebcake
Rating: R-ish
Word Count: 725
Prompt: Skeleton Army
A/N: A slightly more mundane take on the threat of Mortiflex. Season 6.
Mortiflex was taking over Sunnydale.
Some advertising genius had decided that the Mortiflex ActifWear (“MAW” to its adherents) line of day-to-evening gym bunny clothes would be shown to best advantage against the backdrop of various historic Sunnydale graveyards. Spike and Buffy had been forced to abandon their usual patrol activities to guard the dozens of makeup artists, hairdressers, wardrobe minions, lighting assistants, ADs, and - worst of all - models that clogged one or another of the cemeteries each night.
“Those girls can’t possibly be human,” said Buffy, absently tapping her heels against the tombstone on which she perched. “I’ll bet there’s evil afoot.”
Spike surveyed the suspects. Each girl was approaching six foot something, painfully thin, and smoking like a jalopy in need of a ring job. A jalopy that was polished and upholstered beyond the point of “cherry”. He took a deep sniff.
“Don’t smell evil,” he said with a shrug.
She stared at him in horror. “I cannot believe you just said that.” She kicked off her grave marker and did a pretty convincing flouncing off. Not convincing enough, however, as they’d been going through variations on this for months. He wondered what had set her off this time. He heard her mutter, “I can’t help it if my job isn’t sweet-smelling enough for 100-years dead nostrils.” He sighed and went after her.
“Buffy! Just meant that they smell human. Not vampires or anything, alright?” He kept his voice low as they approached the temporary dressing room set up by the DeValle crypt, although he couldn’t hear anything stirring within.
“Whatever,” she huffed, allowing him to catch up.
Wouldn’t do any good to beg forgiveness for his non-transgression, and there didn’t seem to be anyone else about, so he decided a good offense was in order. He caught the crook of her elbow and tugged her into the tent. It was indeed deserted for the moment. He backed her into a rack of clothes, diving down to nuzzle her neck.
“Besides, you know there’s nothing smells as delicious to me as brassed-off Slayer,” he said, punctuating his admission with a long, slow lick from collarbone to earlobe.
God help him, it was true. The lingering aroma of burgers, fries, and spilled soda pop was more arousing than any $200 an ounce perfume he’d ever come across. It must be a Pavlovian conditioning thing. Though he’d admit to himself that it also brought a nostalgic thrill for the golden age of carhop suppers. He peppered kisses down her breastbone, nimble fingers working at the fastenings of her blouse.
“Yeah, right. Those girls have probably never even seen a Double Meat Medley. I might as well be mainlining the oil from the deep-fat fryer.”
He froze in the act of removing her top. He looked up at her distracted pout, then back at the rib cage clearly delineated under the golden skin in front of him.
“Let me get this straight. Are you saying that those dusty, dried up bags o’bones are making you feel fat?”
She shrugged eloquently.
“Bloody hell. I was wrong. If those emaciated stilt-walkers can have that effect on a strong, succulent - and quite fit - specimen like you, there is definitely something evil at work. Dark, dreadful, malevolent evil. Should get to the bottom of it just as soon as I’m finished getting to the bottom of you.”
He made a grab for her sweet little arse. She squeaked and twisted away. After a brief, playful struggle - during which a rack or two of ActifWear overturned with the “whumpf” of falling fabric - they ended up in an undulating tangle of limbs and tongues.
Scant minutes later, he squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away from the glorious sight of Buffy bouncing above him. In an effort to keep from going over the edge, he took a gasping breath, his face half-buried in scattered Mortiflex garments.
He caught a faint, but clearly present, whiff of black magic.
He hated to rush a job as pleasant as this one, so he didn’t. There would be plenty of time to deal with the new threat in town once he’d put his Slayer to rights. Fortified with just enough distraction to give him an extra handle on his self-control, he seized her hips and went to work.
Concluded in part 2 - Think and Grow Thin.
Author: Rebcake
Rating: R-ish
Word Count: 725
Prompt: Skeleton Army
A/N: A slightly more mundane take on the threat of Mortiflex. Season 6.
Mortiflex was taking over Sunnydale.
Some advertising genius had decided that the Mortiflex ActifWear (“MAW” to its adherents) line of day-to-evening gym bunny clothes would be shown to best advantage against the backdrop of various historic Sunnydale graveyards. Spike and Buffy had been forced to abandon their usual patrol activities to guard the dozens of makeup artists, hairdressers, wardrobe minions, lighting assistants, ADs, and - worst of all - models that clogged one or another of the cemeteries each night.
“Those girls can’t possibly be human,” said Buffy, absently tapping her heels against the tombstone on which she perched. “I’ll bet there’s evil afoot.”
Spike surveyed the suspects. Each girl was approaching six foot something, painfully thin, and smoking like a jalopy in need of a ring job. A jalopy that was polished and upholstered beyond the point of “cherry”. He took a deep sniff.
“Don’t smell evil,” he said with a shrug.
She stared at him in horror. “I cannot believe you just said that.” She kicked off her grave marker and did a pretty convincing flouncing off. Not convincing enough, however, as they’d been going through variations on this for months. He wondered what had set her off this time. He heard her mutter, “I can’t help it if my job isn’t sweet-smelling enough for 100-years dead nostrils.” He sighed and went after her.
“Buffy! Just meant that they smell human. Not vampires or anything, alright?” He kept his voice low as they approached the temporary dressing room set up by the DeValle crypt, although he couldn’t hear anything stirring within.
“Whatever,” she huffed, allowing him to catch up.
Wouldn’t do any good to beg forgiveness for his non-transgression, and there didn’t seem to be anyone else about, so he decided a good offense was in order. He caught the crook of her elbow and tugged her into the tent. It was indeed deserted for the moment. He backed her into a rack of clothes, diving down to nuzzle her neck.
“Besides, you know there’s nothing smells as delicious to me as brassed-off Slayer,” he said, punctuating his admission with a long, slow lick from collarbone to earlobe.
God help him, it was true. The lingering aroma of burgers, fries, and spilled soda pop was more arousing than any $200 an ounce perfume he’d ever come across. It must be a Pavlovian conditioning thing. Though he’d admit to himself that it also brought a nostalgic thrill for the golden age of carhop suppers. He peppered kisses down her breastbone, nimble fingers working at the fastenings of her blouse.
“Yeah, right. Those girls have probably never even seen a Double Meat Medley. I might as well be mainlining the oil from the deep-fat fryer.”
He froze in the act of removing her top. He looked up at her distracted pout, then back at the rib cage clearly delineated under the golden skin in front of him.
“Let me get this straight. Are you saying that those dusty, dried up bags o’bones are making you feel fat?”
She shrugged eloquently.
“Bloody hell. I was wrong. If those emaciated stilt-walkers can have that effect on a strong, succulent - and quite fit - specimen like you, there is definitely something evil at work. Dark, dreadful, malevolent evil. Should get to the bottom of it just as soon as I’m finished getting to the bottom of you.”
He made a grab for her sweet little arse. She squeaked and twisted away. After a brief, playful struggle - during which a rack or two of ActifWear overturned with the “whumpf” of falling fabric - they ended up in an undulating tangle of limbs and tongues.
Scant minutes later, he squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away from the glorious sight of Buffy bouncing above him. In an effort to keep from going over the edge, he took a gasping breath, his face half-buried in scattered Mortiflex garments.
He caught a faint, but clearly present, whiff of black magic.
He hated to rush a job as pleasant as this one, so he didn’t. There would be plenty of time to deal with the new threat in town once he’d put his Slayer to rights. Fortified with just enough distraction to give him an extra handle on his self-control, he seized her hips and went to work.
Concluded in part 2 - Think and Grow Thin.