The saloon was a war zone, the air thick with dusty remains. A Dir'hok demon in a cowboy hat was gored on a mechanical bull, an acid-oozing sewer beast hung limply from the rafters, and six vampires were hissing behind the trashed bar, surrounding a dangling red neon sign that said FRESH BLO D.

As twelve hungry fangs closed in on her, Buffy sprayed them with tonic, pinwheel kicked and jumped up. Grabbing the sign, she wound its cord around one scrawny neck and pulled it taut while stuffing the F into an adjacent mouth. One beheaded, one sizzled to a crisp, and the rest were still too stupid -- or too wasted -- to run.

"Bloody just great," Spike muttered from his vantage at the entry. "I step out for a pint and a meaningless shag, and what do I get? The Slayer."

Leaving to find a quieter venue, he heard her cry out. In pain.

Spike stopped to take a deep, savoring breath. Oh, yeah. That's the stuff.

Something told him he'd regret it, but he peeked again anyway. Arm twisted behind her, she threw a sloppy punch. And missed.

Was the Slayer plum tuckered out?

Well, well, well. Maybe this was his lucky night after all. He'd been biding his time, waiting for his moment to blindside Dru's beloved Angelus. What could be more effective -- and satisfying -- than snuffing out the object of the sod's painfully tedious Obsession for Maniacs®?

"Right. EVERYBODY OUT!"

Buffy had no reason to look. That grandiose stage voice and overblown sense of entitlement could belong to only one vampire: William the Annoying.

"Great," she said. "I try to have a quiet night of meaningless carnage, and what do I get? Spike. Hey, w--!" The Robert Smith-wannabe she was whaling on -- who deserved to die for that hairdo alone -- scurried out of her grasp. "I slaughter every one of your friends and you flee from the handicapped? God, double standards much?" She threw her hands up as everyone else cleared out. "Scaredy-vamps!"

"I believe the word is 'handi-capable', love."

She scoffed, picked up her stake and vaulted over the bar. "Capable of what? Rolling into my--" Spike was standing. As in, no longer rolling. As in, legs fully working.

He smiled.

Buffy tensed, body on red alert. This could be a problem. A big one. She'd been running on empty for a good hour now, and Spike looked like he'd just had his morning coffee. Stay cool; don't let him sense your fear. "When did you start walking again?"

"Hello to you, too." Was it his lack of getting any lately, or was she looking exceptionally hot tonight? Hair pale and stick-straight, eyes dark and smoky, she wore a curve-hugging black mini-frock and these calf-high tan boots that were just... cute. "Get a load of you, all slay-kittenish, taking on a pubful of nasties in your Friday night best. Hunting for new bedmates, are we? So soon after the last?"

She pursed her lips and squeezed her stake, fingers itching to wipe that smirk off his face. "I asked you first."

"Does it matter? What matters is we're here now, just us two. Walking, talking..." As he strafed carefully across the debris, boot soles grinding broken glass, he couldn't help but notice that her dress had easy-open buttons straight down the front. Or were they snaps? "Feeling lucky."

She peered into the dark entryway. "Just us?"

Hands on his belt, he leaned on the silent jukebox. "Sorry to disappoint, but what you see is what you get."

Buffy suppressed an exhale of relief. Dealing with Angel tonight? So not on her wish list. But dusting Spike and his skeevy I'm-so-dangerous-and-sexual face -- that could make her month. Possibly her year. "Disappointed?" She held the stake behind her. "I'm pleased as punch."

"Likewise, poppet." Hand gliding slowly down his torso, he said, "If I'd known you were here I wouldn't have filled up on that salsa class just now."

Buffy channeled that guilt trip into steely determination: If I slay him now, he'll never hurt anyone again. "Let me help you work up an appetite."

She handspringed over the bull and came at him with a flying side kick.

"Mighty thoughtful of you," he said as he caught her ankle, twisted it and tossed her on her head.

Ow. Just like a demon bar, to not have a mat around their mechanical bull.

He laughed heartily, remembering how much fun this was. "Did you forget, love? I'm good at this."

So was I. Two hours ago. Ankle and head throbbing, she flipped to her feet and stumbled to a bar stool.

He clucked his tongue as he advanced. "Has it been a rough night? Does Tarty the Vampire Layer need a time --OW!"

Uppercut with the bar stool, he sailed into the jukebox, setting off the Best of Journey CD.

Just a small town girl, livin' in a lonely world...

"Right then," he said, blinking to clear his vision. "Kid gloves are coming off."

"'Bout time," Buffy said, nailing him with a fast left. "I've been fighting amateurs all night. Don't be one of them."

"I wouldn't dream of it, baby." He parried, coiled her in and caged her at the throat, rubbed his cheek against hers. "I'll treat you like a pro. No matter what Angel says."

"Ugh!" She elbowed him in the gut.

It goes on and on and on and on...

* * *

Just a small town girl

Buffy scoffed at the jukebox. "Again?"

He popped her in the jaw. "Look alive, love. While you still can."

"As if! Sucker puncher."

"No rules in rough and tumble last I checked." He ducked her swing. "Play it dirty, Slayer, or you'll lose."

Swept onto her back, she zeroed in on his groin and said, "Thanks for the advice."

He caught her foot before it struck. "Saw that coming. You were looking right at--" She used the other one to box his ear. "Gah!"

She grinned at him. "Dirty enough for ya?"

Though he couldn't hear on account of all the ringing in his ear, he was certain that whatever she was saying justified the brutal knocking out of her Close Up commercial-white teeth.

Alas, she blocked his fist an inch before impact and threw him on his back. She jumped on him, they rolled on the floor, and the fight, like the Journey song stuck on repeat, went on. And on. ...And on.

It dawned on her what the problem was: their skills and instincts were maddeningly similar. For all of their obvious differences, in this arena they were a perfect match. It was Tyson vs. Holyfield all over again -- the first bout, not the one with the ear. Though hers could be on the menu any second now...

Point was, it had become an endless draw with barely any contact. Which on any other night would be a refreshing challenge, especially with the Angel showdown she had to prepare for. But here and now, Buffy's energy -- and tolerance for '80s rock anthems -- was seriously waning. Something had to give.

"Come on, Slayer," he goaded, equally frustrated with their holding pattern. "Unleash! Jab, dodge, jab; is that all there is to you?"

She had to hand it to him; the guy knew how to goad. Buffy 'unleashed' all right -- with a series of combinations so random he was wide open for all but one.

"Puppy's been learning new tricks," he said after landing sore and supine on the floor some minutes later.

"Yeah, but Puppy's saving the rest for an alpha dog." Panting, she dove for him, stake first. "Thanks for the practice run."

Alpha dog? Practice...? He quickly disarmed her, grabbed her wrists and rolled her onto her back. "Thanks for doing exactly what I expected you to."

Whoopsie. My bad. She should have guessed he was trying to get her to tire herself out, but she'd gotten too tired for guesswork. Now she could only struggle vainly as his eyes went yellow and his forehead ridged. Fight or flight, Buffy...

"You're not the only one wants him to suffer," he said, sniffing her neck. "Think of this as a sacrifice for the greater good."

"That reminds me." She surprised him with a head butt and power-kicked him across the room. "You're not worth it."

Flight it was. That was a little too close for comfort, and Giles would unhinge if he lost her now. Later, Spike.

Spike collided with a wooden pillar and a lasso fell into his lap. Brow arching, he looked at Buffy, hobbling toward the exit. "Not so fast, yella belly."

Shyeah. As if the punk rock British boy would know how to use a... Her eyes widened as he stood to wrangle it expertly in the air. "Uh-oh."

She tried to run, but the lasso roped her ankle and she was smacked to the floor.

He laughed as he reeled her in, as she spun onto her back and tried to shake the rope. "Only one of us walks out of here, Slayer. And that someone's gonna be--"

She tugged him toward her and, standing on one hand, nailed him with a scissor kick while whipping the rope around his neck. Toppling him to his leather-clad back, she yanked. "Who, now?"

Fingers prying the rope at his throat, he stared agog at the entry and shouted, "Angel!"

She turned, slackening enough for him to escape and pop up behind her. "Made you look."

"Ugh!" She wrenched his arms from her waist, but he put them back. She pushed them down, they slid right back up. "Could you be any more juvenile?"

"Could you be any more gullible?" he said, chuckling into her ear.

She cast him to the ground, a foot away from the acid spill. "I may be gullible, but--"

The Slayer was listening for something. "What?"

"Shhh!"

She clearly felt another presence in the room. Had someone stayed behind? Or worse, had someone followed him there? He quietly got up and shadowed her, senses on alert. "Is it a vam--?"

"Shh." Facing him, she walked him into place, furtively glanced at the ceiling and whispered, "Oh, my god."

"Wh-- AHH!"

Bloody acid-dripping sewer beast carcass! That bitch tricked him into the line of fire!

"Made you look," she said with mock sweetness.

Frantically wiping the stinging bile off his forehead -- and ruining his good red shirt -- he said, "Could have got in my eye!"

"A girl can dream."

"You little--!" He stuck his hand between her thighs. "Right, you want it dirty?"

"Hey! What are you--?"

He scooped her up, spun her over his head and, with a punctuating shout, slammed her on the mechanical bull.

A scoop slam, natch. How very WWF. Dizzied by the spin, Buffy held onto the bull's horn -- the one not covered in dead cowboy demon -- and kicked Spike in the worst of all directions: into the control panel, which set the bull in motion. At an alarmingly speedy pace.

"Oh boy," she said, holding on for dear life.

The dead demon went flying off the horn. Spike caught its hat.

Now this was a turn for the brilliant. Not to mention, the hat was a perfect fit.

He whistled, clapped and hollered as obnoxiously as possible, "Yeeeee-haw! Ride 'em, cowgirl!"

She did not just hear Spike say that. "Oh boy, oh boy, okay..."

A twangy Mr. Moviefone-esque recording crackled through the speakers: IT'S A ROUGH RIDE AT THE RED SPUR!

Spike whooped. "Ah couldn't-uh sed it bettuh mahseyelf!"

"Shut up, Spike." His 'Western' accent was a travesty; a mutant cross between Foghorn Leghorn and Mary Poppins. "I'm in my own special Hell."

TOUGH IT OUT, WIN A PRIIIIIZE!!!

"Well, how-dee-doo!" He sort of loved this place. Shame she had to wreck it. "Giddyup, pard'ner! Earn that prize!"

Giddyup, pard'ner? Seriously? This couldn't end well. The bull was way too fast, and Cowboy Spike was way too disturbing.

Giles had once specifically taught her how to pinpoint-focus, only she wasn't paying much attention that day. Accentuate the positive, maybe? Or was that from The Great Space Coaster? "Okay. Okay. I will stay on this bull."

"What's that, little biddy? Faster, you say? Well, lookie here, it can go faster!"

"Oh god! Oh god! Okay, okay. You can do this Buff-- EEEEE!"

She took to the air and hit the wall of dead animal heads, hearing a wet crunch before slumping to the floor, ragdoll style.

You LOSE!!!! boomed not-Mr. Moviefone.

Adding insult to insult, Spike strut toward her in that stupid cowboy hat, slow-clapping. She would have bitten off his hands ...if it weren't for the bruised lungs and the fractured ribs and whatever else was helping to immobilize her.

Wow, Buffy thought, I couldn't have nightmared a suckier way to go.

"Lands sakes, Cattle Kate! I reckon a fearless performance like that should git you at least a consolation prize." He'd been entertaining an idea; one that would make Angel's head spin even more than a clean kill. Could be fun -- or disastrous. No telling 'til he tried it. He squatted before her. "Can you guess what it is?"

"I always wanted a," Buffy coughed up blood, proving her internal injury theory, "Hello Kitty Dream Castle."

He gently moved her hair out of her eyes. "Sorry, but tonight's prize is eternal damnation."

She frowned. Eternal...? He couldn't be serious. Please don't be serious.

He flicked the brim of his hat. "Any last requests, little lady?"

"Uh-huh," she managed to say, breath rattling, cold eyes meeting his. "Anything but Journey."

"Has the Slayer stopped believing?" He frisbeed his hat at the jukebox, but it had no effect. Some will win, some will lose / Some were born to sing the blues... "Can't say I blame you."

Well, if he put it that way, then... no.

She may be living in a lonely wo-orld, but she hadn't stopped believing -- not in herself. And whatever she'd broken would heal, if she let it.

There was some fight in her yet.

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."

"Hmnfh?"

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...

Wait.

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 ...like 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.

"Hello?"

"Huh?"

"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.

"Oi, watch the top shelf!" A row of second-tier bottles crashed to the floor around Spike. "Wastrel."

Buffy could have taken this opportunity to fix her shoulder, but Spike looked so beaten and hapless sitting there. She had to taunt him.

Choosing a bottle from the top shelf, she shook it before his face and down-talked, "What is it, boy? Are ya thirsty?" She uncorked it with her teeth and upended it over some jagged glass shards. "Why don't ya lick it up like a good little OHmygod it's blood!"

"Yeah, hello? Vampire bar?" He pointed at the sign she'd used to fry the fledgling. "Did the flashing neon sign not make it clear enough?"

"Oh, 'fresh blood'," she said, seeing all the letters now. "I thought it said 'fresh blond'."

"Why would it say--? Never mind." He dipped a finger in the spill and tasted it. "Type O neg, extra virgin. Now that's quality blond."

"Extra ...Eww!" She smashed that bottle, then smashed another. "Whoopsie! Butterfingers."

Sampling the new spill, he deadpanned, "Type A choir boy. Not really my thing, but..."

"Oh my GOD!" She smashed three more in succession as Spike looked on in amusement. Her sanctimonious outrage was almost as entertaining as her bull riding. Almost.

Smash! "Say goodbye to your precious top shelf, you vile," smash! "disgusting--"

"WAIT!" he shouted, frantically raising his hands in white flag. "Not that one, not that one! Truce! Truce!"

"Why, what's in it?" She'd put her free hand on her hip if she could. "Fresh-squeezed baby?"

"It's sixty year old Scotch, you nit." He swiped and opened it, cheered her and poised it at his mouth. "Fresh-squeezed baby's over there."

She followed his glance, but didn't see anything.

"Made you look."

She kicked him in the shin.

"Hey, truce I said!"

"I didn't agree to any truce." But, her shoulder was dislocated and there was majorly icky blood everywhere, so she shambled off, casting backward glances along the way. Satisfied that he'd stay put for a while, she lay on the couch to discreetly ram her shoulder into place. "UNH!"

Well, it was supposed to be discreet.

Spike could only see a tan leather rectangle. "You all right over there?"

"Fine," she said, eyes clamped shut in agony. "Don't get excited."

"Mm. First-rate grog, this is." He limped toward her, pointed it her way. "Helps numb the pain."

"Ew, no thanks."

"It's just whiskey. No babies harmed in the making. Presumably."

"And I repeat, ew."

He shrugged, peeled off his wet jacket, draped it over the broken coffee table and plopped slouchily on the open spot on the couch. "Your loss."

She peered at him. "It really numbs pain?"

"Like a dream."

"Okay." She dragged herself into a seated position. "One sip. And then the truce is over."

"How about until the bottle's done? Trust me, won't be long."

"Whatever," she said, though she was secretly hoping he'd suggest that. She found an unbroken shot glass near the coffee table and polished it on her dress. "But I'm not swapping spit with you."

Only slightly offended, he poured. "Say when."

"When! I said a sip, not a shot."

He clinked his bottleneck on her glass. "To pain management."

"To your imminent death."

"To yours being first."

"To--"

"Oh just drink, will you? Truce'll never be over if you keep prattling."

"Cheers," she said with rancor, then swallowed and burst out coughing.

Serves her right. While she carried on, Spike patted his pockets for his flattened pack of menthols and his lighter. After a deep inhale, he said, "Bit much for a first-timer, I expect."

"Try last-timer. God, that's revolting."

"More for me." He swigged. Smoked. Sang along with Steve Perry, "...mmm-mm cheap perfu-ume... for a smile they can share the night, it goes on and on and on and ooon..." On his thigh, he air-drummed the fill into the bridge. "Streetlight--"

"Know what?" Buffy put the shot glass down. This wasn't just weird; this was a whole new level of weird. The weird elevator had broken through the weird ceiling and was now launching into the couldn't-possibly-be-weirdersphere. "It's late, we're wrecked. How 'bout we kill each other some other time?"

He hooked her elbow. "Don't make me lasso you again."

She wrested free. "What's with the separation anxiety, Spike? You're usually so quick to bail."

"Am not! Alright, I am. But not tonight. Mark my words, Slayer: we're gonna finish this, you and me, if it takes all weekend."

"What? Why?" Exasperated, she said, "If that's the way you want it, fine. Intermission's over. Lose the refreshments and let's get to the finale already."

"What's the rush, puffin? Got somewhere to be? Got a hot date?"

"Yeah, with my shower," she sassed. "And not that it's any business of yours, but I was supposed to meet my friends at the Bronze tonight."

"The Slaymates without a Slayer? Tragedy strikes Sunnyhell. Hurry, before they get boring again -- ooh, sorry! Too late." He swigged. "You were right to ditch them."

"I didn't 'ditch them'. This," she waved her hand around, "was a gross miscalculation of epic proportions."

"Blast that wrong turn at Albuquerque."

Absolutely refusing to laugh, she said, "I don't know why I'm talking to you."

"Simple. You're stuck with me and I'm a damn good time." He sucked on his cig, blew smoke through his nose. "Go on then; I'm all ears."

"It's a very long story, okay?"

"Lucky for you," he refilled her glass, "I'm immortal."

She sighed. "Long story short, I get as far as the parking lot, where I hear these vamps talking up a new hotspot." Smokin' babes, cheap brewskis. Best part about it? Slayer never leaves town, so there's no chance of a raid.

"Bloody loudmouths. I hope you killed them."

"Well, yeah, eventually. But first, I hid in their pickup truck." Come on, I'll take you there, it ain't far. "Strictly for recon -- I was gonna case the joint, hitch a ride back home, call Giles, dance the night away. That is until that... bile-spitting excuse for a bouncer started screeching at me."

Spike nodded. "Sewer beasts have sonar detection talents. They can hear you breathe a mile away. And the Dir'hok?" He pointed at the lifeless cowboy demon. "They can smell your secretions."

"That's disgusting," she surmised. "And has 'buddy movie' written all over it."

"I bet they were thrilled to see you."

"Not so much. They dragged me inside to make an example of me." The place was packed to the rafters. Buffy thought she was a goner ...until the fight began. To her profound relief, not one was remotely skilled, except for the Dir'hok and Robert Smith. The best part was when the pig-faced owner believed she'd spiked the tonic with holy water. "And here we are."

"Can't you see the true tragedy in this, Buffy?"

"Yes. These boots were brand new. Now look at them." Oh hey, there was an idea.

If you asked him, the blood spatters only made them look more enticing. But wait. He had a point. "These poor sods weren't hurting anyone. Not like there's people to eat in a ghost town, right? We come here to be left alone. Where are you going?"

"Tonic," she said, grabbing the spout and pulling it over to the couch.

"Point is--" He watched her place a toe on the couch arm and spray her boot, knee and thigh with fizzy water while flipping her hair out of her face. What was he talking about? "Are you even listening to me?"

"Blah blah, respectable vampire establishment, blah," she switched feet, "not hurting anyone, blah, we only come here to drink fresh-squeezed virgins and scheme out the next apocalypse in peace, sure, why not?" Legs dripping, she tucked the tonic spout in the couch and sat down to dry off and inspect her boots. "That's harmless."

Her thighs were so supple and shiny and... Yeah. He needed some sex. Preferably with someone who wouldn't drive a stake through his heart. "Not what I came here for."

Which begged the question: "What did you come here for? Where's your hot date?"

"I'm sitting with it."

She wrinkled her brow. He wagged his bottle.

Oh. That. "No, I mean, where's Drrr--" He glowered at her. "...She Who Can't Be Named? You're practically married; shouldn't you always have 'somewhere to be'?"

"She's not the boss of me. All right? I'm my own man."

"Oh," she concluded, "so she's busy."

"If you must know, she's out cavorting with your ex." At her blanch, he prodded, "You remember the one. Tall dark and cumbersome, Neanderthal forehead, hair like that sensitive bloke on Friends?"

"Yeah, thanks for clearing that up."

"Anytime, love."

She sprayed dried blood off of a closed cut on her knee. "So... what are they up to?"

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a shit."

"I just mean, y'know, on a scale of say, schoolyard bullying to full-on world domination, what they were doing would be..."

He squinted at her. "Why should I tell you?"

"Forget it."

He rolled his eyes. "It's nothing major, all right? No need to flounce out to save the kittens and trees. He's just got a hard-on for torturing me. And you know, you."

"Why, what do you know?"

"Look, I said truce, not let's be bestest friends and share all our secrets. All right? Pfft. Not gonna spy for you."

"You're right. This is stupid." She gave him her empty glass. "I'm gonna go."

"He wants you to suffer for making him feel human." Spike really hated to drink alone. "That's all I know."

"Why does he want you to suffer?"

"Because he's a gigantic tool," he answered plainly.

She sat down again. "Amen to that."

"Fish?!"

Spike couldn't stop laughing. "He thought he'd scare someone ...with fish?!"

"It's not funny!" Except that Buffy couldn't stop laughing either. "Willow was really freaked out."

"Oh, come on, it's a bloody fish!" He wiped at his laugh tears and sniffled. "I swear, it's not just the soul. He lost his marbles too."

"I know, right? I mean, why is he all psycho demon qu'est-ce que c'est when you're..." What? A nice guy? The twin fang-holes in her neck begged to differ. She probably needed to be cut off. "...more. straightforward. Less with the fishy and more with the squishy." She pinched the air to illustrate.

"That's what I been telling Dru! I'm not like him; I don't go in for that namby-pamby hocus pocus rubbish. See slayer, kill slayer. That's what I do."

"It's like a job. Albeit an evil one."

"Exactly. I'm a vampire, not a buggery fisherman."

As she snorted a chuckle, he tilted his head at her. Either the whiskey goggles had set in quick, or she was a bit of all right. And who was it she reminded him of? It had been bothering him since Halloween, but tonight it was on the tip of his tongue. Those big, round eyes; that funny little nose; those lips ...the ones she was licking...

She caught him staring. He looked away, cleared his throat. She did the same.

Buffy didn't know what was going on anymore. The weirdometer was so beyond broken that hanging out with her most reviled nemesis was starting to feel normal. And kinda fun? No way. There's not enough Scotch in the world. ...Is there?

"If they could see us now, yeah?" Spike scraped at the whiskey label. "Having a laugh."

"Hoo Lucy." Buffy tucked her feet under her, propped her elbow on the back of the couch and put her hand in her hair. "We'd have a lot of 'splainin' to do."

"Let's not, yeah?" Conspiratorial, he turned toward her, knee nearly touching hers, arm draped behind her. "Leave 'em guessing. Drive 'em right mad. Or, moreso anyway."

"Better watch out," she said. "Angel might go so far as to bludgeon a frog."

"And stuff it in an envelope," he said, beset by schoolboy hysterics again, "to gently place on my pillow while I'm out."

Was the booze making him cuter, or had she just never noticed? Either way, she was mildly crushing on his giggle face. "Would Dru flip out too?"

"Flip out? She'd bust a bloody fuse. It'd prob'ly spark off some apocalyptic horror-vision or what-all; put her out of commission for days. She'd flip out, flap about..." Flap. Flapper. Clara Bow, that was it! Slayer was a dead ringer. God, did he ever have it bad for that bird... Dru used to cry in the theater, blubbering nonsense like Someday you'll be her taffy pull and stick in her shiny teeth forever. "Poor love."

Did he just smolder at her? "Days, huh? Remind me to drop her a note."

"Har har. Don't you dare."

"Doesn't matter. One of us will be dead before the night's over, right?"

"Right." He said this with a total lack of enthusiasm. "After the truce is up, we'll get right back to it."

"Yup," she agreed, equally cheerless. "Just as soon as we're done with the Scotch."

"That's the plan." He gave his chest wound an exploratory rub. "I think I'm almost completely healed."

"Huh." She breathed in, checked her ribs and pelvis for pain. "Same here."

Did she realize she was gyrating like a belly dancer and puffing her tits out? "Can't have that."

"Nope, sure can't." She slouched and eyeballed the opaque bottle. "How much more is left?"

"Couple more swigs, I'd say. For me. For you, about a trillion more lady sips."

"Lady sips?" She stole the bottle and gulped big, then wiped her mouth on his shirt sleeve. "I don't see no lady."

He laughed. "I take it back, pet. You carouse like a burly, unkempt manly man."

"Gee, that's just what every seventeen year old girl longs to hear."

He turned out his palm, envisioning the words written on a billboard: "You're not like the others."

"Granted..."

"No, I meant, that's what every seventeen year old girl longs to hear."

She nodded, chastened. "Ah."

A purple hickey had formed where he'd tasted her. "Though it is prob'ly true about you, innit?"

"I don't think 'the others' spend their Friday nights taking on pubfuls of demons, no. Or, even sharing a drink with one while plotting hypothetical revenge." Feeling him stare at her neck, she covered her bitemarks with her hair. "No, I'd say I've got that market cornered."

"Mm. Revenge would be sweet." He put his feet up on the busted coffee table. "What say we chop his legs off?"

"Ooh. That'd be keen." Looking at his blood-stained black jeans, she frowned. "They wouldn't grow back, would they? Like a salamander?"

He gave her you've got to be kidding me face.

"Well, I don't know! You're vampires, anything's possible."

"We don't grow our parts back."

"Okay." She swirled her drink. "Then why stop at his legs?"

"Slayer!" Shocked and impressed, Spike shoulder-nudged her. "You're evil!"

"Well come on, I mean if you're talking ultimate revenge, you can't go wrong with the Lorena."

"Bloody right you can't." They clinked glasses again. "I couldn't do it though. No man can do that to another man."

She sighed. "I couldn't do it either. Not 'cause I'm a man, but because..."

"Yeah." He sighed. Love. It sucks.

"So, I guess the jillion dollar question is, what's the ultimate dismemberment-free ...revenge scenari... oh."

Before she finished talking, the scenario flashed in her brain.

His, too.

"I... am drawing a blank," he said.

"Me too. Oh well!" Face burning, she knocked back her shot. "More, please."

He poured her another, checked the bottle. "Almost gone."

"Good. I'm ready to get back on you-- on, to... Hurting." She shut her eyes, mortified.

"...Yeah. Me too."

The song filled the awkward silence.

Strangers waiting

Placing the bottle between his legs, he chipped at his black fingernails. "We could, you know. If you wanted."

"Wha--? What do we-- C-could, what do you mean?"

He turned his eyes to hers. "You know what I mean. The other ultimate revenge?" He watched her turn even redder, nearly the shade of her hickey.

"W-w-what are you talking about? We didn't-- Decide on..."

"A real rough ride at the Red Spur? Could be a kick."

"A... Huh...?"

"You? Me? Roll in the hay? A little Blitzkreig Bop? The old--" He gave up. "Sex, Slayer. With me."

"Ew. What? Ew!" She covered her ears and talked herself out of it; he was not cute. Not cute! "You disgust me, Spike, on every level, in every possible way, and I can't believe you would even suggest--"

"Well, you're not my cuppa either, but--"

"Look, I get that you're a guy so you'll sleep with anyone, but I'm... I would never, with you, never ever! Ever! Blech," she said, shuddering for added effect.

"All right, all right. Point taken. No need to get high and mighty about it." He took a drink. "For what it's worth, you turn my stomach, too."

"Yeah, whatever, Unsnap Boy."

"Morbid fascination, that. You're a slayer. I've never seen one naked."

"And you never will!"

"Never got to see Clara Bow in the flesh either," he grumped. "And need I remind you, you're the one with the sleeping-with-the-enemy fetish, not me."

"I do not have a fetish! He wasn't my enemy when I met him, you idiot, and why am I even justifying myself to... Who's Clara Bow?"

"Only the hottest female that ever lived! Much hotter than you. A thousand suns hotter than you. Or, she was, anyway. Point is, she had sex appeal. You, you're like a... dead, angry fish."

"Whoa, I don't know anything about your trampy ex-girlfriends, but--"

"She wasn't my -- Look, it was a stupid idea, all right? Let's drop it."

"Let's!"

"Polish this off, get back to business as usual."

"Thank you! God."

Streetlight people, living just to find emotion

"I'm not a fish," Buffy pouted.

"I said let's drop it."

"You're dead and angry."

He had to give her that. "Yeah, okay. ...Look, you're not a fish, all right? You'd prob'ly be a right tiger--"

"I am a right tiger. I think."

"--with somebody else."

"Anyone but you."

"Anyone?"

"No, I'm not a--!" She groaned. "You know what I mean."

"You're a perfectly chaste tiger. You think."

"I am. And just because I had a thing with Angel doesn't mean I'm into vamps. It wasn't about that."

"Of course not. He's an embarrassment to the species."

"Exactly. Wait."

"Who are we kidding? You couldn't handle a real vamp."

"Uh, yeah I could." She gestured at the wreckage. "Case in point."

"That's fighting. Fighting and fucking is..." Different how? "Well anyway, you saw what happened. It goes on and on ...and on."

They were momentarily silenced, trying to find the bad in that.

"Yeah," Buffy said, an unwelcome flush coming over her. "Fight-wise, we're way too much alike."

"Right," Spike said with a chuckle, "I mean, you and me, that would be like, oil and..."

"Oil," she offered. Why were her nipples tingling?

"Exactly! And who would want to mix that?" He adjusted his pants. "It's boring."

"Totally boring." Shielding her nipples, she fanned herself. "And also, wrong."

"Not so much an issue for me, but--"

"Sick," she volunteered. "It would be sick and, and twisted."

"Yeah! Sick and perverted and naughty and... just..."

She licked her lips. "Bad."

"Very." Slayer + Clara Bow + wet lips = "Very..."

With a hot exhale, their mouths met.

Knowing full well that it was bad, naughty and straight-to-Hell wrong, Buffy jumped into Spike's lap anyway.

And Spike, knowing all of that too -- except for the wrong part -- rolled out a plush and cheerful welcome mat. Couldn't see why not, all of a sudden.

Buffy's list of cons faded as each spiraling thrust of his tongue left a giant checkmark on the side of pro. Say what you like about hundred year old vamps, but sweet merciful Lestat did they ever know how to kiss. And touch. And growl...

She tore away from his lips. "Don't fang out."

Impatient, he nodded. "Don't slay me."

"Uh-huh. Good." Less talk, more kiss.

Striving for a deeper, stronger, closer-than-physically-possible connection, they went on offense: she blitzed his mouth, he clutched her hair; she clawed at his neck, he scraped her lips; she grunted, he mewed... He mewed? Spike blamed it on the hearty lapdance. She was so hot, so eager, so deadly...

This was exactly like fighting, he realized. Only it felt a whole lot better.

Buffy blamed her raunchy, uncontrollable gyrations on the booze. That, and he was pinching her hips, which evidently for her was akin to dropping a Susan B. into a coin-operated stripper. Okay, so maybe the red-hot kisses were to blame too, but the rest was all booze. It had to be. Because whether or not she felt all that drunk, she would never in her right mind be attracted to a jerk like him. He was too brash, too possessive, too lethal... too... too...

"Tyah!" Did he have to lick her earlobe like that? And snarl like that? Slutty bump-and-grind at full tilt, she babbled mindlessly, "Oh god. Want you... so bad."

Yes. She did just say that. To him. Exultant, he popped the snaps of her minidress and breathed before recapturing her mouth with his, "Slayer."

Buffy tugged his red shirt down his arms and yanked at his tee. As he cast off both pieces, she almost drooled out loud. Spike wasn't just toned, he was a Greek statue come to life. Chiseled, shredded, flexing muscles of... Guh.

While the Slayer groped his pecs, Spike finally got to unzip that zip front. Hello, tight little beach bunny body I always knew was under there. He whipped the dress skyward and went for her bra. Goodbye, lacy black barrier, pretty as you may be...

Not long ago, he'd inquired about what sort of tits the Slayer had. In reply, Angel had punched him in the crotch, when really all the nonce had to say was bloody edible.

Spike was mesmerized by them: perfect pair of golden, baby-soft creampuffs with nipples that might as well be tattooed with the words Bite and Here. "God, you're cute."

Somehow, Spike made that sound like the ultimate compliment. It helped that he was fondling her breasts and looking at her like he wanted to eat her alive ...which was strangely okay with her, so long as he didn't get literal abou-- "Ow!" Literal! Not with fangs or to the point of skin-breaking, but still! "What the hell?"

"Sorry," he said, only slightly sheepish, not nearly sheepish enough in her opinion, and then he was back again, squeezing and licking and oh! Suckling! Loudly! And someone was making these high-pitched porno noises and -- oh, that was her.

And then with the hands on her hips again? What a sneak. What a sneaky, filthy, dirty, takemetakemetakeme... She thrashed on his lap.

Her blood. Her rich, zesty, elixirish Slayer blood; he could feel it everywhere, humming on his tongue, singing in his ears, warming up his fingers, pounding on his cock. And throbbing in time with the music.

He was talking? Why was he talking and not suckling? "Huh?"

"Want me to change the song, love?"

"Huh?"

"The song? Izzit bothering you?"

Working hard to get my fill

"Oh." She'd completely tuned out the music in favor of all the groans and pants and suckles. Fighting an overwhelming urge to force his mouth back to her nipple, she gave him a casual shrug. "It's kinda growing on me."

"Bloody right it is." With a sneer, he pressed her against his pulsing hard-on. "Now about the song."

As she rolled her eyes, he licked her smiling lips and moved to stand up with her in his arms.

He was gonna fuck the hell out of this sweet--

"Bottle!"

He caught her meaning -- and the flying whiskey -- just in time, then tossed her onto the couch. As she lay there on her back, writhing and arching ever so winsomely in nothing but boots and knickers, he gently placed the truce juice on the floor.

Hurry, hurry, hurry, she thought, and realized she was squeezing her own nipples.

With a smirk, he zipped out his belt, dropped his pants to his ankles and took a flying leap.

"Ahhh!" she squealed as he kissed and bit at her neck, her collarbone, her breasts, and down, down, down her quivering torso until he yanked her panties up, off and away.

It was official. Buffy had officially entered Oppositeville, population two. She was 1) getting into a Journey song and 2) completely naked before her arch nemesis. Willingly completely naked. Well, except for the boots.

He stayed her hand at her boot zipper. "Leave them."

Oh really? she wanted to tease, but instead she shrieked, "OH F--!" Because without ceremony, totally ceremony-less, this guy had no concept of ceremony -- he'd spread her thighs, cleaved his tongue into her and gone to town.

Vice-gripping her ass, he shook his face against her skin and devoured her like a hungry, growling cheetah.

"Hu-unh!" Despite her best efforts, Buffy couldn't do a thing but grunt and whinny and twitch and contort like some kind of... cheetah food. Ugh, it must be so unsexy for him. Not that she cared what he thought and how many tongues did he have? Were those his fingers or-- "Hunh! Oh, m... hunh... fuckity... fuck!"

"Mmmgffmm." Tongue wagging and swirling, he roved her folds with his fingertips, exposed her swollen ruby of a clitoris and tickled her anus.

"What? F--Oh-- F-- Wh... Hunh! H..." She dug her boot heels into his back.

Spike laughed. This girl was fantasy made flesh: tasty as peach lemonade and wild as a rodeo calf. Way she held her tits and circled her pussy in his face, sputtering nonsense and naughties... How the hell did such a priggish, sanctimonious tightass become one of the choicest morsels he'd ever feasted upon?

How? How could such a cruel, conceited jackass be this good at oral sex? Granted, she didn't have a lot to compare it to, but there was no question in Buffy's mind that William the Bloody had a knack. And possibly a forked tongue. "Dyah!"

Just then, he coaxed a finger into her pussy and sucked on her clit and she lost all capacity to think beyond Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh. My. God God GOD GOD GOD

He could have teased her, kept her in a state of delirious pique while he continued to have his way with her, but 'Make Slayer Come On Tongue' had suddenly bumped the tried and true 'Kill Her' out of its eternal number one spot, just as 'Fuck Her Hard' shot to #2 with a bullet.

GOD GOD GOD GOD, went her intricate thought process. GOD GOD GOD GOD GOD THUMB! She gasped and tremored. There's a thumb! In my butt! It's in my... "Oh!" He pumped it inside of her. "Oh!" Oh! My... "GO-O-O-OD!"

While she screamed and mauled his skull and generally had a seizure, Spike drank his reward. Warm and tangy and profuse, it gave him even more of a rush than her blood. And that rush went right to his balls.

"Hoh. Hoh. Oh. Oh. Wow." Buffy needed a minute. Or better yet, an hour. "Wwow." She needed time, lots of time to recover from her first-ever not-self-induced orgasm, and to deal with this amazing revelation of gut-rippingly intense sexual gratifi...

Spike was looming over her, staring at her and licking his come-glazed lips, and somehow she got tingly and wanty all over again.

"Ever taste yourself, Slayer?" Without waiting for an answer, he kissed her roughly. "Could eat you all night."

Could you? Please? Whimpering, she wrapped her legs around his. I'll be your best--

"Na-agh!" She cried out in surprise when he shoved himself into her. All the way.

And then he just started ...going. Didn't ask if she was okay, didn't take it slow; Spike was the type of lover who couldn't be bothered by gentleness or patience or consideration. In other words, he was perfect.

Angel had been all of those nice things, and it was exactly what she'd needed -- then. Right now, exactly what she needed was this: Straight-up evil with a side of fantastic orgasm.

Besides, they both knew she could take it. Even if it was gigantic.

"Hunh... Sp... Nyah!"

"Bit snug?" He smirked at the understatement -- Slayer was tight as a virgin. But then, she wasn't far from it was she? Maybe he should have been more gentle...

Oh, well.

Throwing her blood-stained knees over his shoulders, he gave her a good, deep seeing to. She was stronger than him by a nose, could stop him if she wanted -- except he noticed she was dewing up and swooning at every thrust. Was it any wonder the Slayer liked it rough? "Take it, Slayer."

"Hunh! Mmnah!" So. Wrong. "My name! Mmn, is not-- hyeah..."

"Right," he said, slowing down. She did have a name, and he sort of liked it. "Buffy."

Why was he suddenly gazing at her like he wanted to get married? "Know what? Slayer's fine."

"Slayer," he said and reverted to hard and fast and callous, eyes glazing over with good old comforting lust. "Slayer!"

"Vampire!"

"Yeah! That's me, baby! Don't you bloody ever forget it!"

"Unh! Oh! God! Yeah! Fuck!"

"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you, Slayer. I'm gonna fuck you 'til you can't bloody walk."

"Wrong!" She elbowed him in the face and shoved him off, breath heaving.

"What the hell was--?!" He noticed a minxy gleam in her eye and decided to wait for her next move.

She held up a finger to keep him put while she found the lasso. It wasn't that she didn't like what he was doing; she did. A lot. Maybe too much. But Spike needed to know who was in charge here. She was the wrangler and he was the bull. She snapped the lasso on the floor. "Only one of us is walking out of here, Spike."

Spike grinned, acutely turned on as she coiled the rope around his neck and wrists, pushed him to his back and mounted him. Cowgirl style. Giddy-bloody-up.

Holding his stiff, shining cock in her hand, she craned the tip toward her open pussy lips and rubbed it firmly over her slit.

"Hohhh," he said.

She backhanded him and yanked the rope. "Shut up."

This was too good to be true. He could see why she'd turned Angel into a raving lunatic -- he'd go a little mad himself if he couldn't have a second go at this.

"Unh... unh..." she said with each inch she dropped until she'd sheathed him completely. Oh god sex was nice. "Fuck."

Loved the way she said that. All breath and secrets, with a drawn-out ah.

One exploratory rise and fall, then another, and Buffy had a new favorite position.

Spike wasn't averse to it himself. Bound hands on her torso, coaxing her into a building rhythm, he watched her pussy swallow and release his cock, swallow and release, each time dousing it in more juice. "Oh, you hot little--"

She clapped a palm over his mouth. "Uh-uh. No talky." Truth was, Buffy dug his dirty talk more than she'd care to admit, but she had a point to make. Using his belt as a gag, she said, "That's better."

"Oo 'itch!" he said, trying to get it off.

She trained his hands to her breasts.

Yeah, okay, he thought. Didn't need to talk right this second anyway.

"I'm gonna fuck you, vampire." Eyes flashing, she teased him through spit-shined lips, "I'm gonna fuck you 'til you can't 'bloody' walk."

At that, Spike fell a little bit in love with her.

She made a right noble effort to live up to her promise, too: fingernails lodged in his chest, hips wrenching, hair whipping about, she forced herself upon his defenseless person -- oh, the violation of it all! -- until they were both at fever pitch.

"Yeah!"

"Ghhghhhh!"

Don't stop...

That magic phrase spurring her on, Buffy rode Spike at a gallop while he huffed and snarled like a rabid, tethered beast. Oh right, he was a beast. Somewhat tethered. Hopefully not rabid. God, he was hot.

Her mouth stretched to an oval, and he had to touch it. In a happy twist, she sucked on his finger and gave it a nibble, all while merrily bouncing on his dick and oh yeah, masturbating.

To review: The Slayer. Was fucking him. While fellating his finger. And experimenting with bondage. And frigging herself. And moaning like no one would ever be-fucking-lieve...

Dear Penthouse. I never thought it would happen to me.

"Mmnh! Mmnh! Mnah!" Slackening his binds, she forced his hands to her hips, encouraged him to pinch. "Yeah, yeah, yeah -- yuuuuUUUUUNNH!"

Hold on to that fee-ee-ling...

"Hunh! Hunh! Hunh!"

"Gff! Mggh!" he sputtered into the belt, confounded by her rubberbanding tightness and the way she moved in orgasm -- she'd begun to do this undulation... oh, holy shit, he'd never felt anything like it before. He loosed the shoddy restraints and ripped off his gag. "Spin round."

"Huh?"

"Spin round on me but don't stop what you're doing."

Hazy, she dismounted and turned her back to him. Not about to wait for her to carefully reboard the happy train, he speared her and held her down. She yelped and did that oscillating thing again.

"Oh hell. Oh, Christ," he said, pinching and spanking and spreading her ass cheeks. "You are a fucking goddess."

Though the lust-fueled worship was ...surprising, Buffy chalked it up to coincidence that immediately after he said that, her toes curled to the point of cramping and her orgasm crested, an unholy yowl escaping from her throat. Also, the song did a simultaneous fade-out.

Breath ragged, they stilled, waiting in the Journeyless silence.

Like a reliable old pal, the song returned, its detuned piano intro preventing any awkward reflection.

She felt a whiplike sting on her back. "Ahh!" The belt! "Give me that--"

"My turn to play leather daddy."

"Ew! I wasn't your dyahhh!--ffghh!"

He buckled the makeshift gag and gruffed into her ear, "Shut. Your mouth."

Hairs on the back of her neck prickling, she shut her mouth.

In record time, he'd lassoed her into a Shibari hogtie, then shoved her face to the couch. "Safeword is -- oh right, I don't do safewords." He chortled at his sparkling wit.

Well, sure. Kinda a gimme that the vampire was loads more effective at domination. But why hadn't she thought of whipping him? And what was this crazy macramé cage he'd locked her in? Clearly she had a lot to learn. Uh, not that she would ever behave this way again...

He snapped the rope taut, which somehow activated the big-ass knot he'd tied on her clit, and if that wasn't stimulating enough, he wasted not one second before plunging into her willy nilly from behind. Was it her fault she got all pornstar shrieky again?

"That's right," Spike snarled, maneuvering her by her wristbinds and going for broke. "You're my personal cumhole now. Fucking hot little Slayer cunt. You're mine."

Normally she'd take issue with all of the above, but he'd sexed away her ability to be offended by anything -- and now it was all just making her horny and hungry. Two mondo orgasms and Buffy was brainfried and boneless as a... Chicken McNugget. Was there a McDonald's around here? Maybe they could go after...

Because yeah, we should totally hang now that we're fuck buddies. Hello? Vampire? Slayer killer? Sacred...? "Oh ma-eber!"

He undid her gag. "You all right, love?"

That was a loaded question. And a question he should not be asking. Especially when coupled with 'love'. She wanted Dominance Guy back. "Uh-huh. Fuck me. In my..." Okay, so she couldn't say 'cumhole'. Give her a few more years, maybe a steady soulless vampire booty call... "H-harder."

"Fucking hell, I will," he growled with renewed enthusiasm. "You know I will."

"Unh! Unh! Oh! Gnah!" Wow, that was harder. He'd been holding back.

Come inside of her? Or on her ass? Lower back? All three? Could be done... "Lemme see your mouth." He turned her head. "Lick your lips for me." She did. "Hohhh, sweet little jazz baby."

"Huh?"

He paused. "Uh, gonna... jizz all over you. Baby."

"Oh... kay--Unh! Unh!"

"Love your lips. Fuck. So pretty."

"Hyeah!" Yes, okay? She was not immune to flattery, even if it was from a vile, evil, evile... so and so. "Unh! Nunh! Unh! ...Unh?" Why'd he stop?

Holding her still, he asked conversationally, "Ever suck a cock?"

"Ohhh Slayer. Ohhhhh fucking bloody fucking... You sure you never done this before?"

Somehow she was able to shoot him dagger eyes as his cock filled the back of her throat. That in itself was a talent.

"Uh, right. 'Course you are. Just kidding." But Spike needn't have worried that she'd stop: in true slayer fashion, her crossness only served as fuel ...for the heavy-duty wet/dry vac that was her mouth, apparently. "Oh, fucking -- hohhhhhfff, bloodyfuckinghell..."

Working hard to get my fill
Everybody wants a thrill

If anyone had told Buffy that she'd be spending this or any Friday night on her knees in a trashed demon bar, fervently deep-throating the world's most notorious threat to slayerkind, she probably would have hurt that person. A lot. And questioned that person's sanity. And hurt him/her again. Yet here she knelt, gorging on William the Bloody like he was coated in candy shell and sprinkled in Fun Dip.

Surreal, yes. Shocking, probably. Distressing, not so much. His primer was brief yet informative: Take it in your mouth. Fhhh... Yeah, that's good. Relax your throat, right, take it all the... Ohhh fuck Slayer, wha... fhhhh... Yeah. Now, suck in your cheeks and pull back... Ohhhhhh, that's it. Oh your teeth! No, no, I like the teeth, just a little scrape yeah... yeah... Yeh. Now, put your hand here, give 'em a squeeze, ohhhhhhhhhoh my god. You got it, baby. You bloody got it. Oh my god.

It was kind of exhilarating, actually. Buffy felt like she'd unlocked a secret: this wasn't demeaning like she'd assumed; on the contrary, it was a position of power. Spike was trusting her with his pleasure and his manhood. Not that she'd ever... unman anyone, but still. She had the power.

"Gyeaohhhr Slll fffck!"

...to make him do that.

Okay, so she was also partial to the funny sounds he couldn't help but make. And okay, she wasn't exactly against his barbarian hair pulling either. And fine, he kinda smelled sorta sexy and the girly O face he kept trying to shake had its merits and yes, maybe all of the above was making her swollen and gooey but that was neither here nor there. He'd given her two mindwarping orgasms so far. She had to return the favor at least once. It was only fair!

He seemed really close too, all-out O-facing and hair-steering and whisper-babbling more stream of consciousness praises, mostly about her mouth. Apparently it reminded him of vacuums and Clara Ho and was he seriously thinking of another girl right now? Buffy met his gaze and spiraled her tongue to reset his focus.

His abdomen quivered. "Oh Slllhhhh!"

She smiled.

He touched her smiling lips, thinking I could write a fucking sonnet about this girl's mouth. And as she suckled the tip again, he thought If only it could stay this warm and pliant when I make her my vampire slave. Ohhh fuck. Buffy the Vampire Slave. That's right Dru, I turned a slayer! By the way, she's a right hellcat who can't get e-bloody-nough of me. Don't mind sharing our bed do you? Oh, hell I'm gonna come.

"Stop. Stop." Panting, he pried her mouth off of him. "Get up here."

"But, don't you wanna--?" She stopped talking when he mashed his lips to hers and somehow tricked her into thinking it was his tongue -- not his fingertips -- gliding between her labia.

"You're very wet," he said in a raspy voice that made her shiver. "D'you like doing that?"

As if he didn't know. "It's okay."

"Want to keep doing it?"

She opened her mouth, breathed in, closed it. Then she licked her suddenly-dry lips.

He had no choice but to smear her juices over her mouth and kiss her.

The night was young, and so were they; well not technically but he was forever cursed with the body of a footballer and the endurance of a tantric yogi -- and wouldn't it be fun to save it all up for one big sloppy facial? Like, buckets of it? Hours from now?

Yeah. That's what he'd do.

As long as he didn't look at her wicked little mouth too much, he'd be all right.

"How about," he proposed, squeezing her ass, "we do it together?"

"H... uh, how--?"

In answer, He of the Creative and Gravity-Defying Solutions simply pinwheeled Buffy upside down and, holding her by the waist, frenched her open pussy.

"Huhhh!" Her thighs spasming on his shoulders, she was poked in the chin by his hard-as-ever cock.

Though she tried to give it equal time, it was really difficult to concentrate on anything but his phenomenal tonguework. Not falling also posed a challenge.

He helped by roughly bobbing her head for her, which made her gag and drool in unsexy ways. She jabbed his ass to remind him that she was not, in fact, a blow-up doll.

"Sorry baby." Kissing her inner thigh, he let go of her head. "We could do it on the--"

Spike groaned as she took him in completely and did pretty much what he was directing her to do all on her own.

Oh, yeah. She was gonna make a fantastic vampire. Once she got her fire back.

Don't stop believin'

What if he didn't turn her? What if he kept her as his secret slaything, all hot-blooded and dangerous like this? The things he could do with her, if she'd let him...

He saw them fucking on his car, sunlight threatening the horizon, him chained in place until she thought fit to set him free--

"Fuck! Stop." He peeled her off again, caught his breath. That was a surprise. "Gonna make me come."

"Isn't that sorta the point?"

"Haven't you heard the song, love?" He righted her and gently let her feet touch the floor. "It's the journey. Not the destination."

Watching his tongue curl, she said, "How long can you... hold it?"

"How long can you take it?"

Feeling fresh dew drip down her inner thigh, she tried an unaffected shrug. "Not tired yet."

The corners of his mouth slowly turned up.

Her eyelids fluttered.

"All aboard, then." He picked her up by the thighs, angled himself into her and held her down.

"Unh!"

"Hang onto my neck." Widening his stance for balance, he moved her pelvis in mutually pleasing ways until she took the lead.

Suddenly, Buffy had a whole new reason to be grateful for her preternatural strength. Who knew this was even an option? Having sex standing up, easily, with nothing to lean on? Could normal people do this? ...Or this?

She bent backward and rolled up. It felt good. She did it again. Touched the floor.

"Aren't you a quick study," Spike laughed, loving the way she pushed her limits. He hadn't had sex this acrobatic since... well, that acrobat.

She nibbled at his ear. "Teach me more."

Temptress. "What you wanna know?"

"Everything."

He inhaled. "You just got yourself in a world of trouble, girl."

"Try me," she said, lips grazing his as she rode his rigid cock. "I dare you."

"I will, Slayer." Holding her tight, he strode toward the bull pen -- he'd spied a small tube of Vaseline on the floor when his face landed there earlier. "I w--hoa!"

His evil plans foiled by the stretched tonic cord she'd tucked into the couch, Spike crashed to his knees and she tumbled to her back, tonic flurrying all over them.

Buffy burst into laughter. "Wow. 'A' for effort, though! You made it one whole step!"

"S'all right, love." He snatched the tonic gun. "I got a better idea."

"AHHHggbgb!"

Now it was his turn to laugh. The sight of her covered in fizzy water, some spewing out of her mouth, purling down her tits... yeah, this would be a fine memory to treasure.

"You bastgbgb!" She kept trying to grab the gun, but he was spraying it in her eyes and dodging just out of reach and giggling that maniacal not-cute giggle... Oh, it was so on.

Spike couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed this hard. His side actually hurt! "Ow. Hee hee hee! Hey, no running away. You asked for it, remember? Lesson the first: water sports. Get me a beer nozzle, I'll teach you all about golden showers." He guffawed.

What the hell was he talking about? Getting sprayed all the while, she crawled away from him, behind the bar.

He gave her a quick breather while he located the Vaseline tube and stuffed it in his boot. "Come out, come out, Little Naked Slayer. Big Bad Wolf's not done with you yet."

Buffy was grabbing nozzles and testing them. She settled on 7-Up. Effective and tasty.

"I'll huff, and I'll puff," he leaned over the bar, "and I'll--" A boot came snapping out of nowhere and cracked him in the chin. "Gyah!"

She climbed the bar, stood tall on its surface and with the confident comeback "You'll squeal like a little pig," let him have it -- or, she tried to. The cord was stuck under her boot. "Dammit."

He grinned. Yet another golden image for the memory banks: Buffy the Vampire Slayer naked on a bartop, legs apart, pointing a squirt gun at him. This was a good night.

Also, she made this too easy: he pulled the cord around her legs, yanked, and her ass landed on the counter with a hard slap.

"Ow, you-- Ahhgfmm! Mmph! Mmm...."

She made those noises because he'd simultaneously jammed his tongue down her throat and pushed the nozzle into her pussy, blasting it with cold fizz.

"Mm, mmmn!"

"Hmhmhm," he laughed into her mouth. And then he moved the nozzle lower.

"MMPH!" This was followed by a protest that he couldn't hear, because he wouldn't stop kissing her, and ultimately, inevitably, a much calmer "Mmm."

It was the weirdest most alarming sensation; why did she like it? Enemas were not supposed to be a turn-on.

Pointing the spray at her clitoris, he thumbed her asshole to let all the water out. Then, he pulled up a stool, stuck the same thumb in her pussy and anally probed her with his tongue! Who did he think he-- "Oh my god! Oh my GOD! OH my god!"

A vampire, that's who he was. A filthy, disgusting monster with zero regard for hygiene and "Oh GOD yeah!"

Vampires had certain perks, she had to admit. As for example, performing oral sex while being bathed in tonic without having to come up for air. The things you could do with boys who didn't need to breathe! Hot tubs, pools, water slides, the ocean... All she had to do was find her snorkeling gear and drag him to the country club after closing time... Right after they exchanged friendship rings and went to church together and how did his tongue manage to lobotomize her like this?

"Hold this still," he said, and placed her hand on the nozzle. He tended to something that didn't involve her, so it made her suspicious.

"What are you--?"

He looked up, stuck two fingers into her asshole and climbed up on the bar, slathering his erection in... where'd he get that?

"You dared me."

"What exactly did I dare you to-- Oh my FUCKING GOD!" The nozzle flew away.

Her ankles on his shoulders so he could better push his bulbous tip through her tight ring, he said, "Want me to stop?"

She breathed a few more times. "I didn't say that."

"Tell a man you want to do everything, this will likely spring to mind."

"N-noted." Her eyes widened. "Hohhh! Motherf...!"

"First time, Slayer?"

"What the hell do you think?"

He bit his smiling lip.

"Don't laugh at me."

"Relax, will you? It's gonna feel good, I promise! Just stop clenching."

"I'm not!"

"You are."

"It's too big."

"Much as I appreciate the flattery, I'm no John bloody Holmes, so--"

"Who?"

"Let. me in."

Well, fine. If he put it that way.

The second he felt her unclench, he bore down, thinking Fools rush in where Angel fears to tread.

"Ohhhhhhh!" they shouted together.

Their eyes met. Signals were received.

And then they went all Animal Planet.

Writhing, scrabbling, panting and braying, they somehow migrated from one end of the bartop to the other. Buffy's back was probably a mosaic of broken glass, beer nuts and cigarette butts, but she stopped caring about stuff like that around the time he stuck his entire penis into her ass.

And then, right after that, when he pulled out a little, and firmly shoved it back in, and pulled out a little, and firmly shoved it back in, while his abs did this inhuman wave like a freaking wheat field in the wind, and he went faster and faster... She could no longer think anything but GIMME NOW.

Spike wasn't using his brain much either beyond Holy shit and the sensory equivalents of tight, hot and all mine. But then, when did he ever use his brain?

Her hair splayed over the edge of the bar, she provoked him by squeezing his ass and bucking her hips in perfect answer to his.

As he flattened his palm on her clit, she felt a paroxysm, a flood, a release of pure joy, and something gushed out of her. The tonic? Or was that all her? And why was it shooting out like that?

"Oh Buffy," he said, rubbing in circles as she gushed onto his palm, "Oh Buffy, ohhhh Buffy..."

She was a squirter too. A bloody fucking squirter. There were only so many limits to his self control...

By the time it stopped, Buffy was halfway off the bartop and he was telling her she had to let go or he'd come in her ass, and he didn't want to do that.

She unclenched, and he slowly extracted himself while taking care not to let her fall. Pulling her upright, he got off the bar and kissed her for a long time.

"Mm-mn," she objected when his cock poked her inner thigh. "That was in my butt."

"So was my tongue."

Eyes widening, she pushed him and his wicked grin to arm's length -- but after a beat, she brought them both right back.

"You nasty girl," he sneered as their lips briefly parted.

"I'm not the one who stuck my tongue up your ass."

He twitched a brow. "Night's still young."

With a resounding scoff, she punched him in the solar plexus. Spike rag-dolled halfway across the room, upending the couch on impact.

"Ooh," Buffy said. "Are you okay?"

"Never better!" Limply sprawled over the back of the tumbled couch, a sharp table end lodged in his braincase, Spike winced. "Who doesn't love having his head split in two?"

"Is it... bad?" Buffy stood on tiptoe to get a look. "Not that I care."

"I'll live," he sighed, testing the depth of his wound. "Not that anyone cares."

"Good," she said, and goggled at her choice of words. "I mean -- Whatever. We're truced."

"'S'that what you call this?" He tutted. "I should've brung my reading specs for the fine print. Tell me, Slayer, I'm curious--"

"It's not like I meant to--"

"--what part of 'truce' do you not understand?"

Buffy made a cautious approach. "The part where I can't hurt you."

She obstructed his view of the ceiling, and his ire miraculously melted away. The Slayer was such a titillating study in contrasts -- powerhouse heavyweight in a 6 stone body; brazen nymphet who shyly covered her naughty bits as if he hadn't just spelunked them with his tongue.

"Tell you what, puffin." He pulled her down on top of him and placed her hand on his stirring groin. "Here on in, barring death and dismemberment, anything goes." He hissed as she squeezed his balls. "Can't say I mind a little pain with my pleasure."

"You mean it?" She walked her fingers up his torso to his nodding face and rubbed the pointed curve of his cheekbone. "'Cause I have been dying to do this."

Spike reeled from her powerful slap. The Slayer really put her back into that one.

Buffy was smug -- he so deserved that for anally invading her without so much as a 'Geronimo' -- until she noticed the pool of blood that had leaked out of his skull. "Oh my god, are you--?"

Before she could dote more -- which, for the best really, no good could come of doting -- he elbowed her in the chin and somersaulted her over his head.

"Oof," she said upon crashing into the adjacent coffee table, unyielding angles cutting into beyond-sore muscles.

"You're right, pet. That is fun." Revitalized, he rose from the couch and languidly fondled himself while he watched her squirm. "I don't know what gets me hotter though, giving or receiving. You?"

"Giving," she said as she kicked him in the face.

He shook it off with a wicked grin. "You sure about that?" He seized her ankles and lifted her ass off the ground. "Let's conduct a test, shall we?"

"What--? Ow!" Buffy was appalled as he proceeded to spank her like a disobedient child. "Ow! Hey! Ow! Spike! Put me down!"

"But I can't decide! You've got to help me, Buffy!" Laughing, he flipped her around to deliver firmer spanks and rub her belly against his hard-on. "I like pain much as the next vamp, right, but I really like causing it too. To spank or be spanked, that is the question." Spank! Spank! Spank! Spank!

At first, it was humiliating. Then it became sort of soothing. And then she realized there was nothing in his arsenal that didn't make her ache for more. Hurt me. Punish me. Let me do the same to you.

Spike cocked a brow. Somewhere along the way she'd stopped struggling, stopped bitching, and had begun to arch up to meet his hand. Feeling between her thighs, he rubbed the silken liquid on his fingertips and said, "I see you have the same problem."

She bit his shin hard enough to draw blood and he dropped her. On her head. In retrospect, not the brightest strategy, but at least he was hopping around in pain.

"Bloody--! Christ, you're feisty! Like a big, blonde chihuahua."

Attempting to stand, she got as far as all fours. "Yip."

Everything hurt, especially her ass. Which she realized was jutting right at him when he clucked his tongue and said in his seductive voice:

"Look at that bum, all red and welted." He seized her by the waist, stood her flush against him and turned her chin to his. "Want me to kiss and make you better, baby?"

Something about the way he touched her, the way he violated her with his eyes and curled his tongue and called her 'baby' and existed made her want to say yes to anything he asked. This was beyond unhealthy. "Everything you do makes me worse."

Buffy didn't mean for it to come out the way it did -- like a cry for help from a tortured, self-destructive soul. But there it was.

Spike saw her then; the girl inside the Slayer. What she longed for, what she feared, all she'd lost...

She was exquisite.

Before Buffy could escape his scrutiny, he caressed her face, and with an expression that confused her, softly pressed his lips to hers.

It was the most shocking thing he'd done all night, and without thinking it through, she allowed it.

Dizzied by pent-up emotion, she clutched his head, felt the gash she'd made and the blood she'd caused to spill, and nearly sobbed into his mouth.

Streetlight people, living just to find emotion

With a grunt, he pulled her closer, his thick cock thudding against her skin.

Her eyes flew open. What was she doing? Angel was gone. Nothing could bring back what they had -- least of all Spike.

To prove it, she pushed him to the floor and straddled him, marring his white chest with sticky red handprints. "You're a pig, Spike."

"...What'd I do?"

Grasping his hard-on, she sneered, "What haven't you done to me tonight?"

"Well, quite a few things actually, buh-hahhh..." Her warm, wet pussy lips sucked on his tip. "Hoh, Buffy."

As she relished the sensation of being filled, of him hitting just the right spot at just the right angle, of washing away the pain in her life, he touched her hips and whispered her name again. Reverently. Three times.

When did that start?

"Nah-ah," she panted, rising and falling. "That's 'Slayer' to you, Vampire. You don't get to call me--"

"Buffy," he dared to repeat, eyes flashing.

Fed up, she held him down by the neck, grabbed a broken coffee table leg and aimed it at his heart. "Get fangy."

"Oi, what the hell are you--?"

She smacked him and dug the point into his skin. "Get. Fangy."

Spike changed his face, and Buffy was fucking a monster again. A cold, heartless, soulless monster. Much better. So much better.

As she stared into his vampire eyes, her cunt cascading with fresh nectar each time she dropped, he thought, Not a fetish, you say?

She gave him a brutal kiss, circled the stake at his heart and said, lower lip bleeding, "I could, you know."

And that was... extremely hot.

"So could I." He grabbed her hand, flipped her on her back and, her knees at his shoulders, plunged in and licked her throat. "I could drain you in ten seconds flat."

She re-poised the stake at bullseye. "I could dust you in one."

"Right place," he hovered over a pressure point, "I could paralyze you with one little bite."

"You wouldn't have the chance."

"Try me, pet." Nostrils flared, he deepened the intensity of his thrusts. "Give me a reason."

Eyes rolling up, breath sawing out, come dripping down her ass, she ensnared him with her thighs and brought his mouth to her throat.

His fangs grazed her neck. Her stake cut his skin. Death was one slip away.

"One inch in? Two?" he taunted at her ear. "How far are you willing to go?"

She sucked on her finger, said, "All the way," and lunged it far into his rectum.

"OH!" Spike shouted. "OH FUCK!"

Buffy smirked. Didn't think I would, did you? She stuffed another one in and wiggled it.

"Oh, fucking! Bloody! HELL!" She'd done it! Not with her tongue, but it might as well have been. Like a firecracker set ablaze, he went haywire: grabbed her ass and jack-hammered her into the floor, imminent death be damned.

As he got more and more merciless, his pantherish growls got less and less human. The animal analogy was just a tad too literal now and what would it say about her if she--? Too late. Climax approaching.

"Unnnhhhhh don't stop don't stop gonna -- uuuunhh Spike!"

It was bad enough he could taste her blood, bad enough a stake was jammed half an inch through his dermis and she was more or less milking his prostate while her vaginal walls milked his cock, but it was the 'Spike' scream that did him in. With a thunderous wildcat growl, he erupted, detonated; blasted all he had into her.

Buffy gasped and sputtered and tried to keep her weapon steady. That was really all she could do until he stopped... until it stopped. 'It' being the evil undead snarling animal thing that was currently ejaculating inside of her. Copiously. She knew because she felt it overflow and spill out... and keep spilling out. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Fu...! Hunh!"

"Grrah! Hrrah! Hah! Ohhhhh. Ohhhhh. Ohhh, Buffy." His forehead hit hers and he closed his eyes, whispering, "Fuck. Me."

Wow. That was... intense. No wonder he was holding out.

Finally able to dislodge her fingers, she let her left hand fall, but knocked something over in the process.

The whiskey bottle.

Cheeks touching, they watched the last of their truce juice trickle out onto the floor.

Buffy's stake tremored, Spike growled at her neck, and in a three-second blur they kicked and clawed and wrestled until they were standing several paces apart.

"Oh my god! You were gonna bite me!"

"You were gonna stake me!"

"No, I wasn't!"

"Neither was I!"

Deflating, she said, "Oh."

"Heh." He scratched his chin. "False alarm then. So..."

"So." She thought about where her dress might be.

Spike smiled. She looked adorable in nothing but those boots.

He looked ridiculous in nothing but those boots. And that face.

Buffy dropped her stake. "You can defang now."

"Who said I was through with you?"

"You're--" He wanted to fight her now? After all they'd-- "Oh."

He stroked his stiffening cock. "It's your fault. Standing there all naked and bloody and dripping my jism."

She stepped backward as he came at her. "You're grotesque."

"You love it." He shook the demon away and lowered to a crawl.

"'Love' is a very strong... Hunhhh!" He licked a slow trail up her inner thigh, sucking in his own come. His own come! Not turned on, not turned on, not... Goddammit.

When he stood to kiss her, her eyes widened. It was still in his mouth. And he was putting it in hers.

She should have been grossed out, but at this point...? She swallowed it.

Spike felt a sudden urge to ask her what she was doing later on in the week.

He was looking at her funny. "What?"

Spike touched her hair and said, "It's your choice."

"My choice?"

"We leave now, go our separate ways..."

"...Or?"

"We don't stop."

She held his gaze for a long moment.

Just a small town girl

With a solemn nod, she turned away from him, picked up her dress and the lasso, and walked toward the door.

Hell, he thought. Shouldn't have given her a choice. She even had the foresight to nab the lasso so he couldn't rope her back in, tie her down and keep her prisoner here forever. So much for Plan B.

When she got as far as the jukebox, he almost shouted Wait! -- but then Buffy picked something up, about-faced, put the cowboy hat on and said ala Clint Eastwood, if Clint Eastwood was a gorgeous naked girl, "Giddyup, city boy."

Just a city boy

He cracked a silly grin. And salivated a little.

Buffy shrugged. Leaving meant facing reality and Giles and her friends and owning up to everything she'd done tonight. Staying meant orgasms galore and all the 7-Up she could drink.

No contest.

Lasso over her shoulder, she sauntered to the bull station and flipped the dial to SLOW N' STEADY. The other options were WILD N' ROUGH, FAST N' HARD, and DEATH RIDE. Hmm, wonder which one Spike picked?

It lurched into motion.

IT'S A ROUGH RIDE AT THE RED SPUR!

They shared a chuckle.

TOUGH IT OUT! WIN A PRIIIZE!

"I want my prize, dadgum," Buffy said, patting the bull's back. "What do they give winners in a vampire saloon?"

He climbed aboard, then lay on his back as per her coaxing. "I have a hunch it's not Little Kitty Sand Castles."

"Hello Kitty. Dream Castle. God, what century are you from?"

His laughter ebbed when he realized she was tying his torso to the bull. "What are you doing?"

"Safety first," she said, gave him the rope and hopped onto his thighs. "Now tie me to you, Macramé Man."

"Macramé? It's called shibari."

"Hibachi, Atari, George Foreman grill, I don't care." She said all of this while jacking him to life in time with the sway of the bull. "Just do it."

Amused and turned on, he knotted the lasso around her waist and pulled it taut as she sat on his erection. "Hoh-h-h-h." Lassoed Slayer in a cowboy hat, writhing on his dick. On a mechanical bull. This was the greatest porno he'd ever seen -- and he was the lucky co-star. He might cry.

Hi, my name is Buffy and I'm a comeaholic. She'd heard that facing the truth was half the battle. Or was that 'knowing'? Anyway, she didn't want to win any battle. She was a proud orgasm junkie, and Spike, shady schoolyard supplier, was going to help her O.D.

"Mmmmnah," she said, sensually rolling her head, letting the bull move her forward and back, forward and back.

Spike pulled at the rope to manipulate her further, adding a little jerk every time she lay back. "You feel so good, Buffy."

"So good," she echoed, body bowing and arching. "So good."

"So beautiful."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Don't stop."

"I won't. God, I won't."

Well the movie never ends it goes on and on and on

Lulled by their waving bodies and the swaying rotations of the bull, its droning whir over the persistent beat of the song that refused to end, they entered a sort of hypnotic trance. Life was reduced to a thrillingly illicit sensation, one that could be felt over and over and over again as long as they never, ever stopped.

* * *

Well the movie never ends it goes on and on and on

Dimly, it occurred to Spike that the song had gone a full run without his knowledge. Or had it been two?

Rolling up and raising her arms in the air, Buffy saw her reflection in the floor. When did the floor get so shiny? Her head was hot.

Spike watched her frisbee off the cowboy hat, run her fingers through her hair and whip it about. Did she know how sexy that was? A strangled moan escaped his throat.

She looked at him. "Don't come yet."

"I won't, baby."

Buffy didn't want to either, but the bull was weaving and his hands were on her hips and every inch of her skin was tingling. She felt drunk again. "Oh, fuck! This is so good!" Had she mentioned?

"So fucking good," he said, touching her face. "Should have known it'd be like this."

"With a slayer?"

He shook his head no. "With you."

That caught her off guard in that it made her oddly melty. And suddenly orgasmic.

"Oh god, oh god, I'm gonna--"

"Yeah, baby, let it go. Let it go, I won't stop."

"You promise? You promise you won't stop?"

"I promise, baby. I'll keep this up all fucking week if you--"

"Unh! Unh! Unnnnh!" As she keened and convulsed, blue sparks popped around her head and the air smelled like electricity. All this mind-blowing sex had finally made her delirious.

Her pussy contracted and released, her slick juices coated his balls and the world went blue and sparkly around them. And suddenly--

Well the bzzzt never bzzzt it

Quiet.

The bull was still moving, but the song had stopped. Zips and crackles took its place. And what was that smell?

"Oh my god!" Buffy finally got a good look at the jukebox. The jukebox which was now ON FIRE.

"Shh," Spike said. "Don't stop."

"What?! Are you crazy--?"

"Let me come in you one more time. I'll be quick! Twist my nipples and lick your lips."

"Twist your--?"

He put her hands there. "Do it. Come on, Buffy. What is that so far, five to one?"

She scoffed, but he had a point. And hey, if she died here, she wouldn't have to explain anything to anyone. "Fine. Just hurry!"

Not a problem: Buffy rode him so well, twisted so hard and slid her tongue so suggestively over her lips that it took him all of twelve seconds to crest.

Without his vamp face on he was less growly animal, more passionate admirer. He made a sort of silent howl; mouth open, eyes shut -- then he blinked at her like he was afraid she'd disappear. So, majorly sexy either way. But she should probably save the Jeckyll/Hyde climax analysis for after they got out of the burning building.

"Shit," she said, trying to untie his sailor knot. "What the hell did you do?"

"I tied you to me like you asked," he managed between post-orgasmic gulps and pants.

"Well fucking untie it! There's a fire, Spike."

"I see that! Look, you were the one had the brilliant idea to tie us--" The fire spread to the bull control panel, stopping the bull mid-buck.

"Fang out and bite it."

"What am I, your bloody utility knife? Can't cut a lasso with my teeth. They're for flesh-cutting only. Maybe a little cartilege."

"Wow, I'm so glad we shared this time together."

"Here," he said, undoing the knot. "You're welcome."

"Bout time!" She hopped on the ground with a splash. "Water... Oh, god it was the tonic. It must have not shut off."

"And who's fault was that? Oh I remember, yours."

She slapped him. "Hurry up and let's go. It's getting hard for me to breathe."

"Oh." He hadn't thought of that. "Right, I'll get our clothes. Stay low and mind the water; electrocution's no picnic either."

"Rubber soles," she said about her boots while narrowly saving her dress and putting it on. "Good thing they're knock-offs, huh? In your face, Cordelia."

"Fucking hell!" He exhaled noisily. "My jacket's wet."

"How tragic for you." The entrance was blocked and there was no other door. "Way to make yourself a fire trap, idiot vampires. How the hell are we supposed to--" There was a door over the cat walk. "The ceiling. Spike, now!"

"Can't find my lighter."

"Seriously? You'd die for a lighter?"

"I might. It's a good lighter."

"Fine. I hope you and your stupid lighter are very happy together in... Is this it?"

"Yeah! Good eye, pet!"

Scoffing, she grabbed his arm. "Come. Now."

"Lick your lips, I'll think about it. Heheh."

"I can't believe I'm trying to save you."

"My hero."

"Shut up."

"Burn, baby, burn." With a flick of his trusty lighter and a drag of minty freshness, Spike savored the high of nicotine -- and narrow escape. "I love the smell of anarchy in the morning. Don't you?" He turned his attention from the rumbling, flaring, window-crashing blaze to the girl unzipping her boot on his car's tailfin.

She held a stake to her ankle and zipped it up. "What?"

For the unlife of him, he couldn't remember what he'd just said. That fleeting glimpse of her calf coupled with the stake-tuck was somehow more erotic than anything else he'd seen that night. He cleared his throat. "Some night, huh?"

"Let's not."

"Not what?"

"Reflect fondly, make more hilarious 'playing with fire' puns..." She snatched her bra out of his coat pocket. "Talk at all."

As she turned away to put it on, a proud smirk curled his lips. She could play Never Happened all she wanted, but he'd branded her with an indelible mark: Spike was here. First.

That's right, he'd plucked not one but two ripe cherries off this prickly little maneating vine, and she'd liked it. He couldn't have Hallmarked a better way to say 'fuck you, Angelus' -- only he wasn't all that keen on bragging about it now. Why dash his chances for future frolic, should he suddenly crave another helping somewhere down the... Oh hell, he'd see her tomorrow if she'd let him.

"...rescue my undies too? Black? Shiny? Matches the bra?"

"What? Oh... Right, those. Didn't see 'em." He stuffed her knickers deeper into his back pocket and looked pensive. "Another casualty of the night, I expect."

Yeah, along with my butt virginity and my sense of reason... Rubbing her arms to stave off the pre-dawn chill, Buffy shrugged. "No big. So long as I don't run into a really short policeman on the way home. Or, y'know, a really tall vampire." She looked out into the expanse of dark desert. "Or a pack of inquisitive coyotes..."

Spike frowned at his car, scratched his neck. "Look, why don't you--"

"I think I saw a bus stop down the road," she said quickly over him. Sleeping with danger was one thing, but accepting a ride home from danger was ...well, she had to draw the line somewhere. "So, um... bye."

"Right. Yeah." He nodded. "See you around, then."

"Better hope you don't."

"You better hope..." He trailed off, unable to keep up the charade. "Who are we kidding? We can't go back to the old cat and mouse now."

"Speak for yourself!" Did he honestly think he was the cat? He was so not the cat. "Mouse."

He smirked, flicked his cigarette away and stepped toward her. "Fine. I can't go back."

"I can't believe that," she said.

"Why can't you?"

"Um, how 'bout 'cause you live for killing slayers? Just off the top of my head."

"But I don't want to kill you anymore."

"Well, you should!"

"Kill you?"

"Want to."

"You're not like the others," he said in a new, more meaningful way.

She exhaled a bitter chuckle. "True. I'm way sluttier."

"Yeah," he agreed with a fond grin, and was promptly slapped. "Ow."

"That was one time only, okay? For all I know that whiskey was spiked with some kind of slut-making potion, or -- oh! The jukebox!"

"The jukebox," he echoed levelly.

"Possessed! By a demon!" She snapped her fingers. "Not a demon, a ghost! Duh, hello, this is a ghost town! Ghosts everywhere!"

"Ghost in the machine," Spike said, squinting. "You'd think it would loop the Police."

"Well, he's obviously a ghost who prefers Journey and, and cowboys and -- and casual sex! That's it, he's out to revive the early '80s."

"A jukebox-possessing ghost whose evil plan is to bring back big hair," he summarized.

"Obviously! We were sorcelled."

"Sorce...?"

"Yes! See? Not our faults. Now we can go back to wanting each other dead."

"Are you cold? You're trembling."

She heaved an exasperated sigh as he took off his jacket. "Will you please stop with the chivalry!"

"Fine." He whipped it back on and unchivalrously shoved her against his car to kiss her breath away and grind into her warm, naked, still slippery center.

So not fair -- he knew hip-pinching was her kryptonite. Buffy moaned into his mouth, coiled her legs around his, bucked and shimmied and got embarrassingly wet -- then came to her senses and pushed him off. "What are you doing?"

"Proving it wasn't a bloody ghost got us horny for each other, for one."

"Spike! This ...thing between us died in the fire! I have to believe that, or else..."

He tried to read her. "Or else what?"

Hugging herself, she shut her eyes. "Just go, Spike."

"Let me take you--"

"No! God! I can't be driven home by you!"

"It's just a sodding carpool! It doesn't mean anything--"

"It means everything!"

"So you can conjure up a world of excuses for what happened inside, but you can't come up with a single justification to hitch a bleeding ride? I'm already going that way--"

"I don't have time for this."

"Right, you've got that sixty-five mile walk ahead of you. Better get started. Do you even know which way to go?"

Was it really that far? She pointed at the dirt road beyond the town. "Thattaway?"

He gave up. What the hell did he care anyway? He was a soulless vampire feared the world over -- it was time he acted like it. "Enjoy the hot desert sun. I hear it's a blast."

"Can't wait!" As she heard him storming to the driver's side, she looked around at the selection of cars left by the vampires she'd killed. Maybe she could hotwire one. Maybe one had a manual on hotwiring. Or a jacket, she'd take a jacket. Why hadn't she listened to her mom and put one on before she left?

She could always sleep in one of the cars and be warmed by the enormous bonfire until the sun rose... But then, as Spike so helpfully pointed out, hydration might become an issue. As might breathing.

He rolled down his blackened shotgun window and saw her there, shivering. She noticed him and walked off.

Taking a hard breath, Spike stared ahead. He was not going to ask again. He was not going to ask again. He was not going to-- "Oh, for bloody's sake."

As Buffy marched forward, convincing herself that this walk home was nothing compared to the trials she'd been through as a slayer, she heard the passenger door click and slowly creak open.

She stopped in her tracks and sighed. She was cold. She was filthy. She was exhausted. And if she didn't accept his offer, she would probably pass out at half a mile.

Taking a seat beside him, she slammed the door shut. "But no funny business."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Suppressing a grin, he searched his pockets, the floor, the seat.

"What?"

"Keys." He bent down to check her side, forcing her to raise her ass. His chin grazed her thigh.

The next thing Buffy knew she was mashing her pussy on his face and begging for more tongue. She had no choice, really -- it felt like a creamsicle melting on her skin.

Rolling his tongue straight up and down her warm center, making her shudder and squeal, he yanked at her boot zipper, the one with the stake inside. It tumbled out, he tossed the boot into the back seat and licked her from ankle to knee.

"Oh. God!" Arching and landing on her shoulderblades, she forced his head back where it belonged. "Lick it, lick it more. Please, please, just one more time!"

"Suck me off after. Let me shoot on your face."

Shoot? On my...? "What?"

"Your tits. Can I come on your tits?"

"Um... sure. Whatever. Just... Yeah. Right there. Oh god."

Just as she resigned herself to another round of brain-numbing bliss, there was a flash of light -- followed by a not-so-faraway screech of brakes.

She clamped her thighs around his head so he kept going, encouraged further when she wiggled about and gasped, "Oh my god. Oh, my GOD!"

Except that she was actually referring to what she saw in the cracked side mirror -- a van barreling down the winding dirt road. "Oh my god, stop! Stay down!"

"Stop or stay down? Which is it, baby?"

She whapped him on the head. "My friends are here."

Jesus, did slayers come with LoJacks now? "Quick, help me find the keys; I'll dash us out of here, they'll never know it's you."

"And let them think I'm dead?" She bent over the back seat to grab her boot. "They drove all the way out here, there's no way I'm--"

He ran one hand up her inner thigh. "You can call them later from the motel."

"Mo...?" She turned around in his grasp.

"You, me?" Voice rumbly and seductive, he kissed her neck between each amenity: "Plush bed, hot bath, Chinese take-out, cable TV?" He flashed her a boyish grin and walked his fingers to her hips. "What do you say, Slayer? I promise I won't bite... too hard."

She hesitated. For far longer than she should. As ideas went, it was brilliant...ly stupid. "I can't, Spike. I can't just run away with you and forget the world!"

All he'd put her through and her hair still smelled like daffodils. "Sure you can."

"No! I can't! I have to save the world from your insane girlfriend and her demented sugar daddy! Remember them?"

He let her go. "Kill the mood, why don't you."

"Yeah sorry, but reality bites. And for me there's no easy way out." The van rattled to a halt behind them. "Just, please get down and stay down 'til we're gone? Come on, I saved your life, it's the least you can do."

"God forbid your friends think you shagged another one of us."

"Spike?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll play dead." Spike sighed and whipped his jacket over his head. "You play Pollyanna to your heart's content."

"Thanks, I will. Oh joy, it's the entire gang." They had fanned out across the lot, staring helplessly at the fire. "Sometimes I wish I had less friends."

"Could be arranged -- Ow."

"Shut up and stay down."

"What? No 'drive safe'? No 'happy trails'? No goodbye quickie?"

"Every time you open your mouth I regret this more."

"You mean like just now, when I opened my mouth on your--?"

"To speak. When you open your mouth to speak."

"Buffy?" Willow's panicked voice. "Buffy?!"

"Well, what are you waiting for, Slayer? Stop your grieving chums before they throw themselves on the pyre."

"I'm going." She took in a deep, nerve-calming breath, let it out. "Here I go."

He squeezed her knee. "Don't fret, Buffy. Everything's going to be just fine."

His eyes were twinkling again. "It will if you stay down! God."

"Night night, cowgirl." He returned to his hiding spot. "We'll always have Journey."

"Shush!" Well, on the upside, this wasn't the worst time for her friends to arrive. Could have been a little more awkward if they'd arrived, say, during the anal sex.

"Let's search the cars!" shouted Xander.

Now or never. Smoothing her hair and dress, Buffy got out of the car, wishing for a miraculous pair of undies. And a tissue.

"Buffy!" Giles said, and then came the competing chimes of, "Thank god you're all right!", "Are you okay?", "It's Buffy!" and "Oh, look. She's not dead."

"Alive and kickin'." Just don't ask for a demonstration...

"What happened?" asked Willow as Xander chastised her with a stern, "We have been worried sick about you, young lady. What have you got to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry? One thing led to another thing and..." She dodged both of their hugs. "I'm a little-- in dire need of a shower. And a, ow, extra-strength morphine drip."

"Jeez, what kind of fight went on in there, Buff? You look like you've been batter-rammed."

Spike couldn't contain his snort.

Buffy faked a hacking cough. "Ha! You could say that. Hey, how'd you guys know I was here?"

Willow nearly frothed with enthusiasm, "Giles beat it out of this Robert Smith-wannabe who was bragging about killing you! We knew he hadn't, because... well first off, he was wearing black lipstick."

"Oh my god!" Buffy laughed, sincerely this time. "Could you deal with that Scissorhands hair?"

"Ugh," Cordelia contributed, "Dippity Don't."

"You should have seen Giles though," Willow said. "He was really commanding!"

"Yes, well..." Giles stuttered modestly.

Xander got to the point. "Vampire Robert Smith said that Spike showed up. Naturally, we bugged."

Buffy opened and closed her mouth. "We hashed it out for a while. It was touch and go..." Lots and lots and lots of touch...

Giles stepped forward, took off his glasses. "Did he uh, perish in the fire?"

She obstructed Spike's window by standing in front of it. "Yeah. I-I think so."

"How many others?"

"Total?" She shrugged. "A lot. Felt like a thousand."

"Good show, Buffy," Giles said, staring at the fire.

"Hickory roasted Spike," Xander said with a savoring inhale, and Buffy frowned at him. "What? Too soon?"

Oz raised his hand. "Is anyone else thinking 'old West ghost town, kinda awesome'?"

Xander raised his. "That and 'wish I'd brought my cowboy hat and a big bag o' marshmallows'. Eh, hindsight's twenty-twenty."

"I've always wanted to see a ghost town," said Willow, lowering her hand. "I had no idea there was one this close to us."

"No one knew," proclaimed Giles. "This is a dead zone."

"Oh, yeah," Buffy said. "Total discrimination against live people. They had bouncers that could hear you breathe and smell your sweat from miles away! So unfair!"

"Sorry, by 'dead zone' I mean that it's built upon a mystical blind spot of sorts."

"Oh. Right. That too."

"I'd read about this place but assumed it was a myth..." He recited under his breath, "'A half day's journey from the mouth of hell.'"

Buffy perked up. "What about Journey?" She heard another snort and coughed again. "I think I've got the black lung."

"A mystical blind spot?" inquired Willow.

"It can't be seen or scried or discovered by any means of magick. It could have been here for another hundred years, going on just as it was if Buffy hadn't found it. How did you find it?"

"The usual way. Pure dumb luck. No magick required."

"I guess that's why nobody's come to put out the fire," Willow said. "No one can see it."

"Also, ass end of nowhere," Xander pointed out.

Buffy gestured at the boarded-up firehouse. "But, I'm sure the ghost firemen are gonna rev up their ghost firetrucks any second now."

"We should call someone when we can. Seems a shame to let the whole town--"

"'Kay, we found her," Cordelia said. "Can we go now? It's cold and creepy and smells like burning sewer out here."

"Good point," Buffy said. "Go ahead, I just need to grab my stake. I was gonna rest in this random car, but, here you guys are." She reached into the car, and Spike passed it to her.

But then he caught her hand and ever so softly kissed it. Like some kind of... gentleman.

Blinking, face flushing, she yanked her hand away.

"Rough ride, huh?" Xander said.

"Huh?" She spun around, heart thumping.

"'Rough Ride At The Red Spur'." He pointed at the flaming sign he was reading, complete with an illustration of a vampire riding a mechanical bull. "The fangs are a nice touch."

"Take away the fangs, add shoulder-length blond hair..."

"You... rode the bull?"

"It's a long and humiliating story."

"It's a long way home," Xander said.

"Was it as rough as advertised?" Oz wondered.

"Rougher." She patted the DeSoto door. "But, strangely liberating."

Spike smiled to himself as she walked away.

"I'm glad you guys came," he heard her say. "I wasn't looking forward to hoofing it."

"We've always got your back, Buffy. You know that."

"I guess it's not such a lonely world after all."

He watched her in the side mirror. Holding her dress down as she stepped into the van, she cast a glance his way before the doors slid shut. She couldn't see him, but he read her expression loud and clear: Some night, huh?

Spike pulled her underpants out of his back pocket and found his car keys dangling from the lace.

Inhaling her scent as he stuck the keys into the ignition, he began to hum. "Hmm-mm sweet perfu-ume..."

The van disappeared into the distance.

He draped her lucky knickers on his rearview mirror, revved the engine, spun out and sang as if it were still playing at full volume:

"For a smile they can share the night, it goes on and on and on and oooon..."




THE END... or IS IT?



(Hint: It's not.)

"Should have known it'd be like this."

"With a slayer?"

"With you." on and on and on and

"--still there?"

The pornographic slow-mo replay bombarding all five of Buffy's senses crunched to a sobering halt. Your best friend is on the phone. Try to stay in the now. And stop fondling your boobs.

"Uh-huh! I'm here, Will." She hopped out of bed and headed to her window. Maybe a bath of blinding sunlight would keep her mind awake. "What's up?"

"I... just told you what's up."

"Right." The topic of discussion was what sent her traitorous brain to Smutland in the first place. It didn't make sense: a whole week had passed, but the acid flashbacks were getting more frequent -- and more intense. Wasn't the recurring wet dream of being mauled by a sarcastic jungle cat enough? He had to monopolize her days too? "I know."

"Are you okay, Buffy? You've been kinda space-casey ever since ghost town night. Space-casey and oddly cheerful. Did something... happen to you there?"

Oh, god. Did Willow know? Eugh, was it Oz's dog-sniffing power? Or, double eugh, could everyone tell that she didn't just fight Spike? That they'd -- Ohhhhh. Ohhhhh. Ohhh, Buffy. -- She shut her eyes. Go. Away. "I told you what happened, Will. Just another action-packed slay ride."

"You keep doing that. I've never seen you so ...obliterated, but you keep making light." She lowered her voice. "Did Angel show up? Is that what happened?"

"Shyeah. If Angel had showed..." Buffy didn't want to consider what could have happened if he had; there were no favorable outcomes to that scenario. "You'd know."

"Buffy," Willow said, sounding especially earnest, "I get that these past few weeks have been super hard for you and there's no way I can truly understand what you're going through, but you're not alone. You have me and Giles and Xander and Oz, and sort of even Cordelia maybe; and I'm here if you ever want to talk. About anything. You know that, right?"

"Of course," said Buffy, feeling the guilt. "I know that. And I really appreciate it. Really."

Truth be told, she did want to talk about it. Keeping it inside was driving her mildly batty. But how could she share without sounding like a total skank? A skank with a skanky craving for more skankiness? Fun fact: my ex-boyfriend's archrival has the tongue of the Devil! I know because I begged him to slither it all over my body until I gushed like a firehose! Several times! And now, a week later, while he and my ex and their mutual sweetie are likely plotting my violent demise, all I can think is will I ever find a tongue that good again? Or for that matter, a perfectly curved, thick, hard, oh-so-rideable-

"Anyway." Phone on her shoulder, Buffy hastily unwrapped a cherry blowpop. The bag she'd bought a few days earlier was nearly empty. Not that she'd developed an oral fixation or anything. "You were saying? About that guy you saw last night."

"It wasn't just some guy," Willow said. "It was him. He had the hair and everything!"

"Hmm." Buffy twirled the lollipop in her mouth and popped it out. "Maybe you saw Billy Idol."

"In our high school parking lot? Getting out of the same black car that was parked outside the saloon?"

Even as she thought Way to keep a low profile, moron, a teensy weensy part of Buffy hoped he was there looking for her. For sex. Lots and lots of-- "Well, you know, Spike was kind of a leader. It's possible he had followers who strove to carry on the torch of bad style."

"Buffy, did you actually see him die?"

She was hoping to avoid point-blank questions of this ilk. "Look, even if I didn't, he's barely a threat."

"How can you say that? He lives with Angel, he's killed two slayers, he's--"

"All valid points, but he's kind of--" Given me multiple orgasms. "Not like the others."

"What?"

An excellent question. "He has a weakness." Twist my nipples and lick your lips. "Drusilla! I threaten her, and blam, Spike's mine. I mean -- not mine; I mean, blam, I've got him right where I want him. Not that I... want. You know what I mean, right?"

There was a baffled pause. "Rrright... but--"

"The point is, I need to focus my energy on public enemy number one. I can't get distracted by," tongue, fingers, thrusting, "other guys. Vampires. Things! Whatever." She shook it off. "Angel's counting on that. For all we know, that Spike-a-like was a decoy."

"You think so?"

"Sure; send me on a wild Spike chase when I think he's dead and dusted, that's one way to keep me busy."

"Wouldn't he have sent him to the Bronze, then? The place you're more likely to be on a Friday night?"

Actually, the place Buffy was most likely to be on a Friday night was right here in her bedroom, listening to Journey on repeat while pretending a creamsicle was a vampire's tongue. A poor substitute, as it turns out. "You're assuming Spike has a brain."

"I thought you said it wasn't Spike."

Back, meet corner. Corner, back. "It's not! But, for a Spike impersonator, acting stupid would be true to character. Don't you think?"

"O-kay. But what if Spike -- or, Spike-a-like -- made off with an important book?"

Buffy sighed. That was probably exactly what he was there for. "And gave it to Angel."

"Giles might be there by now. We should call."

"We should." The line beeped and she glanced at the caller ID. "Speak of the watcher. I'll call you back, okay? We'll get to the bottom of this Spike-a-likeness." Rolling her eyes, she pressed a button. "Couldn't have called five minutes ago?"

"Sorry?"

"Nothing." She sat on her bed, preparing for bad news. "Let me guess, Doomsday for Dummies is on the checkout log."

Giles spoke over her, "Might I trouble you to come to the library straight away?"

"Why?" Sensing the festering dread beneath his cheerful tone, she sat up. "What is it; what happened?"

"Well, it's..." He tittered nervously. "Rather bizarre, to say the least. It needs to be seen to be believed."

Her stomach clenched. Spike was in cahoots with Angel. Goddammit. "Another offering from my ex?"

"Well, it's an offering, all right--"

"You know how I hate surprises, Giles. Tell me now."

He took a deep breath. "Angelus and Drusilla are imprisoned in the book cage."

She had trouble comprehending. "Huh?"

"Yes. Hanging from the ceiling of the book cage. They appear to be bound together in a sort of ...Japanese fashion."

Oh. My. God.

"Buffy?"

She blinked, and returned the phone to her ear. "Y-yeah, I'm here. Are they conscious?"

"Yes, but they're gagged and from what I can see, completely immobile. Not to mention, quite naked. They're also in danger of being struck by direct sunlight in the next few hours. I'm tempted to let that happen." He lowered his voice. "Buffy, who on earth could have done this?"

A smile threatened her lips. "I... have no idea."

"Buffy?!" her mother's voice blared from downstairs. "There's something here for you!"

Did her heart seriously flutter at the possibility of that something being Spike? She needed an intervention. "Let me call you right back, Giles." She tossed the phone aside and opened her door. "What is it?"

"Come see for yourself."

After racing down the steps, she paused in the doorway, stunned by a large, brightly-colored box on the front porch.

"Hello Kitty Dream Castle," Joyce said, perplexed. "Didn't you want one of these about ten years ago?"

"Um... Yeah."

Buffy found something wedged beneath the lopsided pink bow -- a postcard for a tacky roadside motel called Happy Journeys. When she flipped it over, she chuckled and wiped at a fallen tear. "I'd kind of given up hope."

Beside the key scotch-taped on the motel's printed address, he'd written:




Don't stop believing.





THE END