After the Bronze, Part I - Drunk
It wasn't that difficult of a thing to considering he was three sheets way past the wind. He was
sloshed. He was snookered. He was downright plastered.
He was drunk.
Of course, he wouldn't be smashed if it wasn't for a certain five-foot-three-inch-blue-green-grey-eyed-bottle-blond-who-could-kick-his-lily-white-arse-with-one-foot-tied-behind-her-back.
He wouldn't mind seeing that trick.
On his hands and knees in his apartment, his head hanging down, Spike looked under him to see
what he tripped over. He frowned. How the hell did he manage to trip over his cock? It wasn't
that big, although some women begged to differ.
Then they begged for Mr. Happy to pound them to the floor. Or table. Or any other handy
surface suitable for pounding into a willing female.
He wouldn't recommend against a metal light pole during a lightning storm. Unless tingling in
places that weren't meant to tingle was the objective.
Spike groaned as his mind caught up to the fact that he'd just tripped and decided he needed to
have another drink to get his mind off the fact that he'd just tripped. Slowly raising his head, he
froze when he caught sight of a boot.
Make that two boots.
His bloodshot, blurred eyes widened slightly. "Whose boots?" he asked aloud.
Spike recognized that voice. It was the voice of the petite-gorgeous-strong-sexy-smelled-like-vanilla-and-liked-to-wear-coral-colored-lipstick-Slayer.
His head continued to slowly raise, drinking in the laced-up, black leather, calf-high boots; the
really-really-really-really-can't-even-be-considered-a-skirt-black-leather-skirt; up over the black
leather bra; to her Cheshire Cat grin. "Hi," she said.
"I need another bloody drink," Spike grumbled, dropping his head again.
"Nope," Buffy told him. He saw the boots approach and found himself being kicked over onto
his back, staring up her really-really-really-really-can't-even-be-considered-a-skirt-black-leather-skirt.
She wasn't wearing any knickers.
Spike groaned again, this time from all the blood rushing to one point due south that he tripped
over a few moments ago. "Now how am I gonna walk?" he asked, referring to said tripping
"You're not," Buffy said. "You're gonna get fucked."
"But I don't wanna get fucked," he whined. "I wanna get so shit-faced I stop thinking about
"Tough," she replied. "I like torturing you."
Spike whimpered. Buffy grinned.
He really needed another drink.
He really needed to move.
He really needed to stop staring at her dark snatch.
"Cor, just shag me already before I bloody burst," Spike told her.
"You do know that you're talking to your imagination, don't you?" Buffy asked, turning around
and crouching down over his naked waist, so she was that close to having him inside of her.
"Don't care, fuck me," he growled.
"God, you are a baby when you're drunk," she told him.
"Still don't care, fuck me," he growled again, trying to grab her hips and plant her on his aching
Buffy leaned forward until she was a whisper away from his mouth. With her oh-so-beautiful-ever-changing-with-her-mood-and-the-weather-eyes staring into his, she breathed, "What if I
don't want to fuck you?"
Spike gasped and started flailing his arms. "But...but...you're my bloody nightdream! You have
to fuck me if I want you to fuck me."
"Nope, I'm changing the rules," she said, climbing off of him. She walked over to his couch and
sat down, crossing one so-very-long-and-sexy-leg over the other, then folded her arms across her
"What?" Spike asked. Now even his nightdreams were against him having the Slayer.
"You're cold and naked on the floor," Buffy told him. She morphed into Natalie Umbrulia for an
instant, then back to herself.
Spike wanted another drink.
"I'm waiting," Buffy said.
"For what?" Spike said, confused as all hell. Which wasn't too far from normal.
"You. Cock. Hand. Showtime."
She wanted him to toss off? "You want me to toss off?"
"Yup," Buffy replied, nodding once. She leaned back on the couch and grinned. "Make it a good
"But you...me...fuck...please?" he begged.
"Forget it," she stated. "Now spank."
Pout on his face, he grabbed his stiff rod with his left and gave it an experimental stroke. His eyes
rolled up into his head at how good it felt. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.
The Slayer clapped as he shot his load all over his hand and bare stomach. He opened his eyes
and glared at her. "I hate you."
"No you don't," Buffy replied. She stood and headed for the door. "Thanks for the show,
"Wait, you're just gonna leave?"
"I'm not real, remember?" she said. She turned when she reached the door. "By the way, you
might want to get cleaned up."
"Why's that, Slayer?" Spike asked, his head lolling to the side to look at her.
"Because I'm going to knock on your door right now," Buffy told him. She blew him a kiss and
Bam. Bam. Bam.
"Spike? Are you in there?" Buffy's voice called through the door. "I thought I heard a scream."
"Bloody hell, I need another drink."