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Crash and Burn

Crash and Burn
By NautiBitz

Info and Author's Notes: See introduction.

"Okay, you're what?"

Spike visored a hand over his eyes and looked up from the paperback he'd chosen from the guest house bookshelf. Buffy was standing there in a two-piece with a juicy orange slice pattern all over it. Good enough to eat. "I don't remember saying anything..."

"You. Are sunbathing. Am I in Bizarro World?"

He turned his attention back to his book. "Never figured you for a comic book fan, pet."

"Don't change the subject! You're sunbathing! You!"

"Well, you got me these pretty trunks for the occasion, didn't you?" He held out an arm and grinned at it. "Can't wait to see if I freckle."

She walked up to him, and prodded his chest. "You feel real..."

"Hey!" he laughed.

"And you're still an idiot, so this must be the real world."

"Why am I an idiot?"

She put her hands on her hips. "Because you're not wearing sunblock."


Sighing, she kneeled beside him and squirted her SPF 8 oil into her hands, rubbed them together. "So, if you don't want to be Kentucky Fried Spike tomorrow, you need some sunblock. Heavy sunblock." She swept the oil over his arm, his shoulder, back down his arm and to his hand. "But this'll have to do for now."

Spike was trying very hard to keep his cool as Buffy stroked his skin with those soft, surprisingly strong little hands...

Then she dripped oil onto his solar plexus, and he flinched. "Bloody hell, woman!"

"Sorry. It'll get warmer." She smiled at him, and rubbed it slowly, evenly over his chest, his nipples, down to his washboard abs--

When she hit his navel, he caught her wrist. "I'll do it."

"I'm almost done..."

"I'll do it."

"Whatev." She handed him the bottle and sat on an adjacent lounge chair.

"I smell like a sodding piña colada," he grumbled, rubbing the oil over his stomach and legs.

"Better than the smell of burning flesh," she retorted, lying back.

* * *

Buffy glanced at her watch. "Ding! Flip time."

Spike looked up from his book. "What's 'at?"

"Twenty minutes. You need to flip."

"Not your flapjack, pet."

She got up, grabbed the suntan oil, and said it one last time. "Flip."

He sighed, adjusted the lounge chair to flat, and turned onto his stomach.

"Now shut up and let me do this. I promise not to cop a feel."

"Promises, promises." He felt the oil spill down his spine, smooth and warm now. Giving in, he closed his eyes and dropped his book as she methodically spread it over his back, his sides, his shoulders, his arms...

She moved to kneel at his legs, and chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Buffy said, oiling his thighs. "Just, if anyone asked me what I thought I'd be doing this Tuesday? It would NOT be spreading suntan oil all over someone like you."

"Someone like me, 'ey? What's someone like -- Oi! Don't do that!"

She'd gotten to his feet. "What? This?" She lightly brushed her finger across an arch.

He laughed, "Hee hee!"

She gasped. "You're ticklish!"

"Am not!" he said unconvincingly, since it was coupled with a giggle fit.

"Aw, Spike's widdle feet are tickwish!" She tickled them some more. He was giggling. Giggling! It was the cutest thing she'd ever heard.

"Leave 'em alone!" He combusted into hysterics, trying to push her away with his feet. "I mean it!"

"Say uncle..."

"Stop it! Stop stop stop! Uncle!"

"Okay, okay, stopping," she said, raising her arms and standing, trying to keep a straight face. Unsuccessfully.

"I'm gonna get you for that," he vowed, turning his head toward her.

"I'm not ticklish," she said airily.

"There are other ways."

Other ways. Other. Ways. She cleared those images out of her mind. "Well, too bad. You can't move for twenty minutes."

"I can wait."

She surveyed her handiwork. Oily-all-over Spike. Hadn't she just had a dream about this? "Oh, hold on, I forgot your neck." She straddled his butt.

Spike was about to protest when her slippery fingers began to massage his neck muscles, and his vocabulary was suddenly minimized to "Ohhhh."

"You're all kinds of tense." She dug deeper.

He nodded, moaning incoherently.

Ha ha, non-verbal Spike. Oh, the power.

Well, she couldn't neglect his shoulderblades, could she?

Spike knew this was crazy, all of this, but he didn't care. Because fuck if he hadn't felt this good in weeks... months... years, maybe...

Ten minutes of full-back massage later, she decided she should probably stop. "Okay, now do me," she joked, and waited for a reaction. She bent forward. His eyes were closed. "Spike?"

A light snore. He was sound asleep.

She smiled, running a hand down his back. "Hmm. Should I be flattered or offended?" She straightened, did one last upward sweep, raked her fingers through his hair -- soft -- and got up.

"Mm-mm," he complained, dimly roused by the loss of contact. "Come back."

"Go back to sleep," she said snidely, and sat down in her chair.

"Can't. Need you on me."

She chose to ignore that. He was naptalking anyway, didn't know what he was saying. "Get your snooze on now, 'cause in twenty minutes, I'm waking you up."

He drifted back into the best slumber he'd had in six years.

* * *

"Wakey wakey," he heard, right before he was doused in freezing cold water.

With a high-pitched shout, he flipped around in his chair. She was grinning at him, empty bucket in her hand.

"You wouldn't wake up," she shrugged, the picture of innocence.

Water dripping down his head, his eyes narrowed. "Oh, you are in for it now."

He lunged. With a gasp, she took off, triggering a chase around the pool's perimeter.

She shouted as he closed in, "No horseplay around the pool!"

"This horse is not playing," he growled, outstretched hand almost catching her by the boycut bikini bottom before she screamed and scampered away.

"You're just begging for a spanking."

"A sp...?" She gasped. Other ways. "Am not, you big perv!"

"You're going over my knee, missy."

"Not if you can't catch me!" She rounded another corner and sprinted forward.

Sprightly little thing. Couldn't keep up with her.

So, he howled in pain, and limped over to the diving board.

Buffy stopped, turned around. "Spike?" She tentatively approached him. "Are you... are you okay?"

"My bloody ankle," he said, sitting down and making a big show of nursing it.

"Do you... need..." She stepped a little closer.

Just one... more... step...

He grabbed her by the arm and threw her over his knees.

"You big faker!" She tried to wriggle away.

"Yeah," he laughed, holding her fast. "And you fell for it."

She thrashed around in his lap. "Let me go!"

"I don't know, love." He shook his head, running his hand up her thigh. "You've been a bad, bad girl."

"No! No!" Yes!

"That's right. Daddy's gonna spank your cheeky little bum 'til these oranges," he briefly slipped a finger under her orange-emblazoned bikini shorts, "turn apple red."

"No!" She squirmed. Oh, god, with the touching! And the Daddy! "No--"

Wicked grin on his face, he raised a hand in the air and snapped it down once. Not too hard, just enough to make her squeal in surprise.

"Tickling my feet?" Spank! "Drenching my head?" Spank! "Yeah, maybe this'll learn you." He spanked her again and again, getting that same delicious response each time.

"Ow! Ow!" she laughed, struggling not so much. "Ow!"

He rubbed her ass, hand moving in little circles over the spandex material, over her soft, taut skin. "I'm sorry... did I hurt you, baby?"

Legs stilling, she scoffed. "Hardly."

"Oh," he shrugged, and slapped her. Hard.

She screamed a real scream and jumped up, rubbing her behind. Then she assailed him, hitting and pounding his chest. "That hurt! You big! stupid! jerk!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Chest rumbling with laughter, he grabbed her arms and pulled her close. "I just... couldn't resist."

Eyes level with his, she pouted. "Jerk."

He smiled at that pouty lip. "I'm sorry."

When his gaze met hers again, Buffy felt light-headed. Oh no.

His smile faded. Tight grip loosening, his thumbs were now softly stroking her forearms.

She swallowed, opened her mouth to speak...

And the front door slammed.

Her eyes widened.

He frowned. "Who...?"

"Oh fuck! Fuck!" She pulled him away from the diving board and toward the guest house.

"What? Who is it?"

"It's Alejandra. Hurry!"

"Who's Ale--"

"Our housekeeper. God, it totally slipped my mind--"

"So you do have a maid..."

"Housekeeper. Twice a week when Dad's gone. Get inside!" She opened the door for him. "And don't move a muscle 'til I come for you."

His inevitable smirk made her blush.

I couldn't have gone with "don't come out until I tell you to"?

She shut the door, got her bearings, and went to greet Alejandra.

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Title illustration by Mike Segawa
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