After the Bronze, Part III - The Hangover
Spike sat on the couch in a pair of shorts, ice bag on his head, cold rag around the back of his
neck, remote in hand. His white sock-clad feet were propped on the worn coffee table in front of
him and he wasn't planning on moving unless he absolutely had to.
Because he had the mother of all hangovers.
He wasn't sure he wanted to know how he'd ended up on the floor, shirtless, with his cock
hanging out of his jeans, his hands and abdomen sticky from what he hoped was his semen. If it
wasn't his semen, he really didn't want to know.
Thumbing the remote, he flipped through the channels, hoping to find some headache-numbing
entertainment. His thumb paused when he landed on a familiar looking image on the television
screen. "What the...?"
It was Buffy's bedroom, complete with little butterflies on the wall and stuffed pig and cow on the
night stand. He remembered being in there one time when he'd gone to get Willow's spellbook.
Of course, when he'd been there he didn't just retrieve the spellbook, he had a poke around the
Slayer's things first. He especially liked what was in the top drawer of her dresser.
"Aah!" Spike yelped, dropping the remote and causing his head to throb. He stared at the
television incredulously after his initial shock. "Slayer?"
"You're watching All Buffy, All The Time," the petite blond on the television screen said to him.
"Let's tune in and see what Buffy is doing right now," she continued, then faded from sight as
someone walked into the bedroom. It was the Slayer in a towel.
Spike's mouth dropped open the same time the towel dropped to the floor. He didn't care if he
was going 'round the bend or if this was an elaborate trick someone was playing on him, he
couldn't tear his eyes from the woman on the screen. His eyes drank in the strong lines of her
back, he taut buttocks, her muscular, beautiful, would-love-to-have-them-wrapped-around-him
legs, as she faced away from the camera.
Then she turned around.
Now Spike's other head hurt.
She was perfect. Petite, muscular, gorgeous and naked. It didn't get any more perfect than that.
With a growl of appreciation, his eyes skimmed over her pert breasts with their dark areolas, her
flat stomach, her nest of brown curls and down her legs. Spike couldn't believe how beautiful she
She even had sexy knees.
He watched, riveted, as she stretched out on her bed. She picked up a notebook from the night
stand and opened it, then he found out the Buffy-show had sound. And was rated for mature
audiences only. No one under seventeen would ever be permitted. Or anyone else but him, if he
had his way.
"Why do you have to be so sexy?" the Buffy on the screen asked the notebook.
"Who, Slayer?" Spike asked the screen.
Television Buffy wasn't listening to him. She was doing something so much better.
Spike eyes widened when she made a small whimpering sound, then, while still looking at the
notebook, her right hand dipped between her legs. "Oh fuck," he whispered, not wanting to blink
because he was afraid he'd miss something.
Her legs moved apart, giving him a perfect view of her sex, and he watched as her fingers ran
through the curls of her mound before one of them found the clit he could see peeking from her
folds. He swallowed heavily, what was happening finally sinking into his headachy-brain.
He was watching Buffy masturbate.
Back and forth her finger went, her eyes never leaving the notebook. Her breathing increased,
causing her breasts to rise and fall at a rapid rate. She was lightly moaning, her legs spreading
wider on the bed, as if she were accommodating a lover.
Spike's left hand went under his own shorts and he grasped his hard shaft. He slowly stroked his
cock, his eyes glued to the screen and the exquisite woman pleasuring herself. Her hips began to
rise and fall, her hand moving almost to fast to watch. The other hand crinkled the top of the
notebook she was holding open.
"Ohhh," she moaned loudly. "Pleasssssseee."
His hand moved faster along his erection, a low, constant rumbling coming from deep in his chest.
"Come on, baby," he urged the Buffy on the screen with a growl. "Come for me."
"I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming," she whimpered over and over.
"Yesss," Spike hissed, feeling himself dancing on the edge. He reached up and grabbed the rag
from around his neck with his other hand.
She suddenly arched up, an almost silent cry tearing from her lips as she orgasm. The notebook
fell off to her side as she began to buck her hips, trying to draw out her climax, her finger flying
back on forth. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, her face flushed with pleasure.
Spike couldn't hold back any longer. Pushing down the front waistband of his shorts, he covered
the top of his shaft with the cool, damp rag and stroked a few final times before he came, shooting
his semen into the washrag. He snarled loudly as he orgasm, his eyes falling shut in an
When he opened them again and looked at the screen, all he saw was a test pattern of colored
lines. Anger immediately coursed through him, and he violently threw the used rag at the
television. It hit and fell harmlessly to the floor.
"Bloody fucking hell," he growled, fixing his shorts and letting his head drop onto the back of the
couch. The ice bag, which had somehow not moved while he wanked off, fell into the crack
behind the couch.
Someone knocked on his door.
"'S'open," he called, not really caring if it was someone coming to kill him.
"Hey, Spike," Buffy greeted, entering his apartment and closing the door behind her. "Giles sent
me to get you because you didn't answer..." She stopped speaking.
Spike raised his head and looked over at her. She was staring at him with her mouth slightly
"What are you wearing?" she breathed, her face slowly developing a delectable flush.
He glanced down at his bare chest, shorts and white socks. "Is this a trick question?" he asked
with a slightly mocking tone. Her face changed into the scowl he was used to seeing and he
laughed. "I'll go get changed, pet, since you are obviously distressed. Should I get the smelling
salts, just in case?"
"Like looking at you would make me faint," Buffy said. "More like vomit."
Spike rose to his feet and an extremely male smile crossed his lips when he saw her take a step
back, her eyes widening slightly. His hangover miraculously vanished as he walked around the
coffee table to pick up the rag he threw. He could feel her gaze burning into him as he started for
his bedroom. "Be right back, Slayer. Try not to heave, I just got the carpet cleaned."
He heard her mutter something about there needing to be a law against half-naked vampires and
he got a decidedly cheery bounce to his step.
Maybe he should run around in his shorts more often.