Title: The DeSoto
Season/Setting: Season 6/Somewhere between the episodes “Gone” and “Dead Things”
Rating: NC-17 in the highest regard, for language and explicit sex.
Genre: Porn without plot, angst, romance
Beta/Test-readers: The Wonderful aerintine and the fabulous lostboy_lj Thank you for your help! <3
Word Count: 3,240 / complete
Author’s Note: This is my first time posting to seasonal_spuffy after three years in the Buffy fandom! I’m excited, nervous, and thrilled to be a part of it. I had to post as soon as the date changed, I am that anxious. Thank you to the moderators for maintaining this awesome community. I hope you all enjoy my contributions!
First, I bring you pure erotica in a car (with feeling), and then I will be sharing some icons in a separate post. I may have something else fic-wise to post on free-for-all day if I play my cards right.
They were on the way to some Lover’s Lookout, a place where teenagers and cheaters go to fuck under the guise of appreciating the scenery: a cliché picture of a black town filled with blobs of yellow and white lights from a spot high above it.
“Pull over.” Buffy’s voice was breathy and low, filled with promises and threats. “Now.”
To his surprise, the excursion had been Buffy’s idea. She’d had a rough night. That could only mean she’d make sure he’d have one, too.
“Can’t,” he said. “Not yet, at least.” And damned if that wasn’t true. Unless they wanted to get mowed over by an oncoming car on the winding, hillside road, she’d have to wait until they got there. Still, it was nice to know she’d gotten impatient.
The sound of a zipper being drawn and an accompanying thud on the floorboard caught his attention, so he glanced over at her. Smiled. She’d taken off a boot.
“Drive faster,” she bitched, lifting her hips high off the passenger seat as she unbuttoned her jeans.
He slammed his foot on the gas. Felt his cock swell to life.
“Almost there, Buffy. Just a few more min—” She unbuckled her seatbelt and lifted the console cushion between them, then shot him a duplicitous little grin. “Well, well. Aren’t we desperate?”
“Just shut up and drive.”
Her hand jerked his belt loose, wrenched his zipper down, and fished his dick out of the opened fly without a stitch of consideration. He held the steering wheel as if he were driving a bus, giving her enough room to lean over his lap and suck the head of his cock into her hot, wet mouth. He wondered if she knew that she always moaned the instant she tasted him. But he did too, for that matter.
“Ahh,” he said, swerving the car a little when he closed his eyes. The waning wail of a passing horn clued him to his mistake, and his eyes shot open when he quickly righted the car again. Buffy glided her moist lips up the side of Spike’s cock, darting her tongue out to pick up any slack, all the way up one side and down the other. “Christ…”
She started to bob her head to a familiar tune. No more teasing. No more attentive licks. She had the base of his cock in an iron fist, her other hand shoved tightly down his jeans on an impatient quest for his balls. She gagged during a particularly buoyant wave, but took him even deeper in case he had something to say about it. Thankfully, she moved that deadly hand of hers to accompany the frantic oscillation of her mouth, tongue and throat.
He was going to crash the bloody car.
“Buffy…you’re gonna make me…. Oh, shit, I’m gonna—”
The slurping sounds came to an abrupt halt, and cool air bathed his aching erection. He wished he hadn’t said anything, but she’d only stopped to say, “Grab my hair. And do it right this time.”
Do it right.
She said it like he hadn’t ever been pissed off at her before, as if this very fantasy hadn’t played out in his mind, again and again, to work out his frustration. So if that’s how she wanted it…
He splayed his fingers across the back of her neck and shoved his hand up into her locks until he reached the back of her cranium, fisted a tight ball of blonde, and shoved her head back down where it belonged.
“Mmph-mmm,” she said, and he spied her back undulating in the corner of his periphery. Her hand released his balls, and he felt a gust of hot air as she ohhhh-ed her hand down the front of her pants.
“That’s right, you suck it,” he said through clenched teeth, feeling tiny hairs popping between his fingers like tightly wound strings of a guitar. Christ, the noises she made when she guzzled his prick were downright filthy. But her hips were moving and her talented mouth stilled, putting an end to the vulgar refrain on his cock. She’d found another distraction besides him.
He yanked her head up with the grip he’d already established, wincing with a snarl when her teeth grazed his shaft on the way up.
“Better not come before we get there.”
Face red, mouth and chin glistening wet, tendons straining beneath the taut flesh of her throat, she said, “Then get there.” Something about the smile she gave him reminded him of a nightmare he once had. In it, she had fangs.
“Tch,” he said, scowling, and shoved her head back down. The turn was just a few yards away.
She’d worked one bootless leg out of her jeans and panties and crawled over him, making Spike’s job of parking the car a difficult task, but she was kissing his neck and jerking him off with a wet hand so he’d find a way around it.
At last, he shifted the car into park, killed the ignition, and everything came to a screeching halt. It was rare, these short, stretches of time with her. In still, quiet moments such as these, it looked as if she spent them trying to figure him out. Like she needed a second to see just who the hell he was, and what she was doing with him. Her breath, her heartbeat, and her glittering green eyes: all of it focused on the man that she was about to destroy. It never lasted long, as it seldom happened at all, but he appreciated it all the same.
Her neck pulsed from a hard swallow.
Buffy’s hands came up to rest on his shoulders, and then she kissed him to stop the pentameter teasing his lips, pivoted her hips until she found the head of his cock, and thrust against it, slippery-wet.
Spike growled and jerked Buffy’s dangling jeans away from her ass, smoothing his hands underneath her thighs to help steady her frantic hopping as she straddled him. It took a few wiggles and grunts before they got into the right position, but once she had it, she took off with a bang and rode him at full gallop.
She squealed when he bit her nipple through her top, and it almost sounded cute, though her eyes played another tune. Her tits had teased him with a wink and he couldn’t resist, not when she was fucking him like this, not with them bouncing and poking out beneath the fabric just inches away from his capable mouth. He went for it again.
Buffy let out a seething breath, grabbed a length of seatbelt in both hands, and pushed it into his neck until she had him pinned to the headrest. The sharp edges strained under the pressure, almost cutting into his skin. She was going easy on him.
“No,” she said, letting out a shaky breath as she continued to ride him.
He dug his nails into her ass, pulled her down hard, and held her there. She instantly swallowed a little desperate noise of complaint and replaced it with a hard glare.
But he stayed just as firm. “Take it off, or we stop.”
There was a fraction of a second when her eyes shifted away, where she wanted to defy him based on pure principle alone. But she was soaking wet and clamping onto his dick like a lifeline, so he knew she’d soon listen to reason.
Buffy dropped the seatbelt, and hurried to shimmy out of her blouse to toss it onto the passenger seat. He rewarded her with a sharp curl of his hips. “Ooooh….”
Her hot breath filled the old DeSoto Adventurer like a sauna, fogging up the small patches of window not yet blacked out with shoe polish. She hopped and twitched and bounced above him at a rapidly increasing tempo. Every thrust sent a stream of air through her pretty lips. “Hah-hah-hah,” she panted, keeping her voice soft, as if she didn’t want to be heard, as if every muscle in her forehead hadn’t banded together in a thin line of solidarity.
But there was no teenage girl next door trying to catch some Z’s.
No witches downstairs “watching a movie”.
No Watcher upstairs ringing up a customer.
“Come on.” He pressed a stubborn finger between her cheeks, finding another way to piss her off. “Scream for me.” The moan that tore from her throat, coupled with the sudden and powerful spasm inside of her almost made him come. He rolled down the window, and she filled the air with a raucous shout. He pushed his finger inside her, meeting a bit of resistance, and watched her eyes get wet. She’d let him do this a few times now, but she could be a real bitch about it. He guessed she knew how good he’d do her, how nice he’d make it for her. Maybe that’s the part she hated.
“Fuck me, Slayer,” he said, thrusting up in his seat to crash against her.
“Shu-ut, shutup!” She choked him with the seatbelt again. But she knew he liked it. Knew when she grinned at him and started crying out in pleasure to the valley below while her body worked him over like an engine.
He let her use him, let her choke him and squeeze him. She was amazing to watch, even if she hated this. He teased that hot spot with little caresses, laughing huskily when she pushed against him, wanting it back. Wanting it in.
But Spike needed a change of scenery.
He reached down between the seat and the door and pulled a lever all the way to recline, and they both fell towards the back seat. The headrest squished and crunched over a shameful amount of trash, mostly whiskey bottles and discarded cigarette boxes, as he found it fun to throw things over his shoulder while shouting in his car.
The view was better from this angle, anyway.
He watched her hands slide up her stomach before making a deliberately slow pass over her pink and perky tits. Finally, she pressed her palms against the ceiling of the car, bounced, and closed her eyes when the movement started to feel a little too good.
* * *
She hated how she said his name. How her mouth betrayed her, every time. And every time that name slipped out, he always took it personally. He always had to throw it back.
“Buffy…” He said it with his eyes closed, soft and reverent. As if he’d rather have said, “Thank you.” As if she’d meant to give him something sweet when they both knew what this really was.
His knobby fingers wiggled between their connected bodies and pinched, and she lost her hold on the ceiling. “Oh!” she yelped, grabbing the nearest thing to keep upright, which happened to be the steering wheel. As she scrambled to seek purchase, because he just kept doing it, her hand slammed down on the horn. She didn’t care if half of California heard. She didn’t care at all.
“Ohmigod,” she said, feeling that insatiable ache inside her turn into a slow burn. A cool hand splayed over her stomach while another rubbed and flicked and tapped and plucked her like a fiddle, and she knew she was moments away from coming—if he’d just move his hips a little that way—oh-yeah-yeah-yeah. She was still leaning on the car horn, and it echoed down in the valley, and Buffy shouted, “Yes!”
“Whoa,” Spike said, his voice shaking almost comically from each powerful thrust. “Bloody—o-oh fuck!”
Buffy wanted to break him. She wanted to fuck him so hard that he’d snap in half.
She barked commands through bared teeth like a rabid dog, said things her mother would’ve been ashamed to hear. Things everyone would’ve been ashamed of. “Fuck. Me. You. Dirty, twisted—oh! You jerk! Don’t just sit there with that grin on your face, fuck me! You think you’re bad? You think you’re so baaad? You like it when I hurt you, pervert? You like that?!” She slapped him across the face, and the car horn died.
His eyes were as round as his mouth, watching and listening to her in rapt awe. Her hand stung.
“I asked you a question.” She reared back one arm for another blow, foregoing the belt for her other hand at his throat. Seeing him lying there in the filth made her want to look at anything else, but the sultry leer he gave her made her think again.
“Pretty cute when you’re pissed,” he said, licking his upper lip like he was waiting for it.
She let out a harsh, rumbling breath, climbed up his torso, and sat on his face. “Shut up.” She found a lonely patch of leather on the back seat to put her bare knee on, but the other pressed into a crumpling pile of trash. She held onto the backseat and laid her cheek against it, inhaling the familiar, comforting smell of leather and smoke. It used to make her sick. Now, it was like a drug.
“It’s disgusting in here,” she said, biting back a moan when he slid his tongue up her swollen slit. “You live like a slob. Oh! Oh! Oh!” He always knew how to shut her up, too, and his methods were usually as dirty as his car. Fingers gliding into her, and also down there, where she told him a million times not to and she a million times loved, all while he hummed and purred and licked her where it counted.
She could smother him this way if he needed oxygen to survive, greedy as she was for pleasure. But she felt his head turning from beneath her spread legs, heard squeaky, creaky leather as he moved into position, lifting her hips a little so he could tongue her from behind. She was curled up and pressed against the back seat now to give him room. He kissed her on the ass, and she exhaled a twinkly, girly little breath. It was easy when she couldn’t see him, when she could turn away or close her eyes. A testimony lacking details kept a criminal free, and she was banking on the lie.
“Do the other one,” she said playfully, and wiggled her butt like a tease.
Spike pressed smiling lips against the other cheek, giving it a slow, noisy kiss, and when a long moment passed, he licked her right up the center.
“No!” she said, squirming away from another sensation she didn’t want to know that she liked.
When he did it again, he wrapped one arm around her to hold her still, then slid his hand between her thighs to touch her in more familiar places. The sound that came out of her was more like a whine; like a tiny white flag of surrender. God, she hated him.
“Please,” she said, arching her back, expecting him to take another taste, but the rustling sound of fabric made her look back at him. He was removing his shirt, bumping his arms on the ceiling and swallowing a curse. She swallowed one, too, and her heart skipped a beat.
* * *
God, she was a lovely sight.
Bent over like a whore in his car, saying, “Please,” of all things. Looking at him with faith that he could, and would deliver. He held his erection and pushed into her pretty puss, sucking in air when the underside of his shaft rubbed against her pelvic bone.
“Whoooooo,” he exhaled, and palmed her ass to keep steady. She was so tight, and the change of position was going to make him lose his cool. She could squirm and beg all she liked, but he wasn’t going to come just yet. There were enough visual aids in front of him to make this a very tricky theory, so he closed his eyes and thought about falling.
“Come on!” she said, rocking her body forwards and backwards enough to cause friction, so he stuck his thumb inside her to buy some time. It seemed to shock her more than anything, but at least she’d stayed still.
Once he was sure he had it under control, the dance began again. He loved this position most of all. Here, he was in charge. Here, he had power. Here, he had a fantastic view of her ass, which he clutched like a guardrail, and Buffy shouted his name a second time.
He kept banging the overhead light with his head, so he used the annoyance as an excuse to lean forward and wrap her up in his arms. She batted them away. He grabbed her by the elbows, and she struggled, grunting between moans while fighting for dominance.
“Stop!” she said, but he heard something, a little quivering breath. He kissed her on the back of the neck, filled her up with his cock and his love, and she kept her eyes shut tight.
He only wanted to hold her.
“Come on,” he whispered against her ear, moving slowly, languidly inside her. He slid his arms around her middle and he pressed his cheek to her back. “Just let me.”
Since she said nothing in return, he knew she’d given up the fight. But he hadn’t expected to feel one of her hands come up to cover his, hadn’t expected her to press into him.
He wouldn’t make her explain. He’d just make her come.
“I know,” he said, holding her tight against him when she wiggled.
“So close,” she said, lacing her fingers with his, panting, moving in tandem with his thrusts.
She rocked and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed and before either of them knew it, they were both knocking random items of rubbish off the seats from their violent climax, wildly thrashing to find something to hold onto. He shot off like a rocket, every muscle, every tendon straining from the effort, feeling rather sorry that he’d fucked her right into the dirty, blackened window in the back.
She wheezed and held herself up on wobbly arms, and he plopped down in the seat, exhausted, but gentlemanly enough to help her climb back into the front seat.
Buffy took a moment to catch her breath with eyes closed, and he wiped the smudges of shoe polish off her cheek and temple with his discarded black tee. She smiled as he did it, and he exhaled a chuckle.
“S’okay,” she said drunkenly, closing her blissed-out eyes again after she rolled down her window. “Thanks for cleaning that up.”
They both sat in silence, jeans bunched and weird on their legs, torsos naked and moist, and he almost asked her if she liked The Ramones. He didn’t know if she’d remember, though.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, her heavy panting calmed down to quiet breaths.
He looked out the windshield to the sight below where Sunnydale sat like a crater in the blackness. Only a few lights flickered down there this late in the evening, and something about that comforted him.
“Mind if we sit here a while?” she asked, and her voice was like a soft caress. “I don’t want to go home yet.”
Rather than ruin the moment with his stupid mouth, he smiled instead.
* the end *