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Skin on Skin

Don't Stop
By NautiBitz
"Everybody Wants A Thrill"

Info and Author's Notes: See introduction.

Chapter summary: Was Little Miss Do Right having Very Wrong thoughts?

At last, Spike thought as he roughly jerked the Slayer to her feet and pinned her hands to the wood paneling.

He breathed deep, emblazoning this moment in his mind for eternal playback: her trembling fear, her yielding acceptance, the warm pulse of her jugular, the texture of her skin, the tang in her blood, the scent of her hair, even the cheerfully ironic soundtrack... Everything about this capture was so perfect, so right, so much better than any slayer he'd ever danced with before--

"The movie never ends, Spike," he heard her whisper.

He squeezed her tight, swallowed hard. "Mmfh."

"And neither do I."


She tore something out of the wall and bashed his head with it:

"I go on," bash, "and on," bash, "and ON!" SHOVE.

He gasped, incredulous, unlife flashing before his eyes as the Slayer penetrated his heart with a pointy wooden...


That wasn't wood. That was antler.

Don't stop. Believing.

A big elk head was protruding from his chest.

She clamped her mouth shut, trying not to laugh.

"Yeah, har har. You're hilarious."

"I know, right?" Okay, so she failed at the not laughing. It was funny! Especially now, with him clumsily trying to extract it? Comedy platinum.

"It still hurts, you know!"

"So does my neck, but you don't hear me whining about it." Actually, the bite didn't smart near as much as the rest of her -- it was more an unpleasant itch. "This could be infected. I hope you're up to date on all your shots, Spike. Pretty sure they're free now with every neutering at Super Pet World, so there's no excuse. Hey, maybe they'll remove that for you, too!"

"Enough." Gritting his teeth, he plucked the antler out and tried not to look as woozy as he felt. He pointed menacingly at a glassy-eyed deer -- then redirected at her. "You're going down."

High on the endorphins of a second wind, she evaded the flying elk head by hopping onto an enormous moose. "Actually? I'm going up."

Spike watched her climb each set of antlers like a stairway and jump lithely onto the hanging catwalk. Bloody slayers and their bloody Chinese movie agility. He looked around.

Up here, she could take a break, heal a little -- and in the meantime, she could mock him. Her crappy night was finally looking up.

Buffy bent over the railing. "Nah nah nah nah nah, you can't--" Where'd he go?

Perched on the ladder behind her, chin on his folded hands, he took a moment to enjoy the view. She clearly hadn't learned about the healing properties of slayer blood. Or about any of its ...other properties. "I can't -- what, exactly?"

She spun around. "Obviously that doesn't hurt enough."

"Thing about vampires..." He stepped onto the catwalk, making her backpedal. "We like pain. A lot." Lids droopy, he looked her up and down, wiggled a finger in his bleeding wound and sneered. "Hurt me some more, Buffy."

As he uttered her name for the first time, like that, and sucked on his finger that, she felt the most unwelcome sensation ever. It was horrifying, and shameful and... Euuugh! She needed to get out of here, pronto. "You're repulsive."

He cocked his head. Was Little Miss Do Right having Very Wrong thoughts? "You like to hurt me, don't you?"

His tongue was curling up and making her even more uncomfortable. "It's vaguely satisfying."

He gave her a sleepy grin. "That's my Slayer."

"Yours?" They traded rudimentary grapples. "Only in your perviest fantasies."

"Wrong," he said, fielding a kick and grabbing her calf. "In my perviest fantasies, you're in latex."

Taking advantage of her abject horror -- and that tiny bolt of titillation -- he pushed her to the railing. She held on.

"Plus, there's two of you."

Her nose wrinkled. "Gross!"

"Oh, yeah. One Buffy here, one Buffy there," he illustrated with a pelvic thrust, "it's a hot, sloppy all-you-can-eat slay-wich, and I'm the meat."

"Oh, ew! Shut up! I'm not listening to this!"

"Best part though? Is when you get it on with each other."

"Oh my god, you're -- twisted!"

"So are the both of you." He dodged her wild jab. "Twisting and writhing, up and down and all around my..."

"Stop it!" She jumped for the top railing and, hanging from it, kicked him away. "I can't believe I'm wasting my Friday night on a sicko like you!"

"I'm kidding, Slayer," he insisted, chuckling. "Only fantasies I have about you involve your decomposing corpse."

Well, good. Wait, did he mean...?

He yanked her down by the hips, and she ended up with her knees hooked on his shoulders, her body upside down, arms dangling.

And she thought the bull ride was humiliating.

"Hmm," he mused, pivoting left to right. "Where to drop you, where to drop you. So many choices."

She could see the bar, the bull, the couch... All very far away. She could also see a chain hanging from the catwalk. Will not succumb to vertigo, will not succumb to vertigo...

"One thing you should know, Slayer, before you go crashing to your doom."

Always with the last word. "What?"

"I see France." He smirked at her lacy black undies. "I can smell it, too."

She gasped so hard she choked. "Oh, my--!" That's it.

Buffy thigh-vised him at the neck, grabbed the chain, and hoped for the best.

Spike yelped as he plummeted.

Hanging from the chain, Buffy watched him land... right smack on the cushiony leather couch! Some vamps have all the luck.

The couch legs broke, leaving everything but his pride unbruised. "That was a bitchy thing to do."

"You're right," she said, trying to climb up the chain. "I should have let you sniff my crotch like the mongrel you are."

"I wish Angel was here to hear that." He put his arms behind his head and got comfortable, watching her shimmy. "The first bit, anyway. I should get one of those recordy-whatsits."

Buffy rolled her eyes. She wasn't sure which was harder to endure, his blows or his bullshit. "Dammit."

"What is it, love? Stuck between a hard place and a... hard place?" It was a bit of a turn on, the way she was wiggling so helplessly and grunting so daintily.

Climbing wasn't an option. She had to fall. And the only semi-soft place was occupied. "Move, Spike."

"Why should I?"

She swung the chain toward it. "Because I'm going to break you."

"Nonsense." He outspread his arms. "I'll catch you."

"I mean it, Spike! Move!"

"But I'm so comfy here."

"Spike-- Oh sh--!" The chain gave, and she went flying out of orbit.

On the up side, her knees landed on the cushions.

On the down side, the rest of her landed on his face.

"Nice work, love," he said. Into her vagina.

"Get! off of me!" She swatted his grabby hands away and slid off the couch.

"Me off you? You fell on me! You wore that dress and you broke my nose!" He sat up, adjusting the bridge of his bleeding nose. "Honestly, Slayer, everyone knows you're dying for a proper shag with a real man but you don't have to rub it in."

"Rub it...?! Dying for a...?! Real...?!" Head go boom! "I told you to move!"

"You'd have missed by a mile if the chain didn't break. You had the angle all wrong."

"How would you know? And what the hell is your problem with my dress?"

"It's tiny! And it's... unsnappable! What kind of slayer hunts in a dress like that? You're asking for trouble."

"That is so chauvinistic! Even if I was planning on slaying tonight, which I wasn't--"

"Anyone can see your goodies when you flip over," he continued, having not stopped talking, "and one wrong yank, the whole dress snaps wide open!"

"Is that why you keep yanking on it?"

He opened and shut his mouth, squinted innocently at the ceiling.

With a sigh, she opened the seam at the snaps. "The snaps are decorative, Spike. It's a zip front."

A zip front.



"Face? Up here?" She waited for him to blink out of his zipper-induced trance. "God, is Drusilla not putting out for you? Is that it?"

He went stone cold. "You don't get to speak her name."

Oh, really? "Drusilla. Drusilla. Drusill--" He punched her in the mouth. Painful, but preferable to ...whatever they were just doing. "Achilles' heel, thy name is Dru--"

"Angel," he said loudly over her. "Angel. Angel. A--"

She slugged him and they rolled around on the floor, hair-pulling, chin-shoving and name-chanting, until she smashed a beer bottle over his head.

He froze in place, stars bursting behind his eyes. "Bloody. Hell."

He rolled off of her, and they gasped for breath. Side by side in the foamy beer spill, Spike suddenly craved a cold one, while Buffy craved a nice, hot, sudsy bath. The minute she got home, she was soaking for hours. And then she'd sleep the pain off all the way to Monday.

Provided she was still alive, of course.

Working hard to get my fill,
Everybody wants a thrill...

"Tired, pet?"

"Nah." I'm annihilated. "You?"

"Not a bit." Six pack. Cigs. Porno mag. That's what I should have done. "That bottle over the head was right invigorating."

"Glad I could help," she said, noticing the broken couch leg. Wooden, pointy, within reach... It was everything she looked for in a killing implement.

"Hang on." He'd spotted a Guinness can: intact, full, within reach... It was everything he looked for in an alcoholic beverage.

He got up to snatch it, pierced it with a fang, and -- Oh, come ON.

Spike cracked the Slayer's elbow over his knee to drop her weapon, and in an effort to keep the can upright, he held on as he snapped her to the ground.

"AHHH!" Shoulder dislocation. Always a good time.

"Did you not hear me say 'hang on'?"

"We're mortal enemies, Spike. We don't honor time outs!"

"Bloody...!" He shook the near-empty can, crushed it and threw it at her. "See what you done, woman? Bollixed up a perfectly good beer."

"No worries, sweetie," she said, using her good arm to rise up and caress his lips, rendering him witless. "Plenty more where that came from."

She catapulted him into the shelves behind the bar.

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Title illustration by Mike Segawa
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