The Adventures of Captain Peroxide and Deadboy
The Angel/Spike Zone of the BtVS Writer's Guild
Title: Voyeur
Author: Avarice
Email: [email protected]
Rating: um, I suck at the US ratings system, really. I'd give it a hard R.
Disclaimer: Joss owns. But he lends me the key to the basement where he has
them chained up sometimes, and I get to play.
Distribution: EN, STA, BAIA. Anyone else wants, just ask me.
Improv: shibbaliciously shippy. My first one in ages :)
For: Sandra. More 30th Century boy, damnit!
Author's note: kata- martial arts term for a small series of movements in a
routine that is repeated for exercise.
Summary: Spike likes to watch.
Ed. Note: This fic would be substantially more meaningful
in a SURPRISE! kind of way were it not archived on, oh say,
Slashing the ANGEL. So, uhm, pretend you're reading it
somewhere else, K?
Voyeur
Cor, look at that.
I mean *look* at *that*.
I snuck into the exercise room (which I'm now in, crouched behind an old
attack dummy) to watch the workout. I can't do it any other time. Could kiss
my arse goodbye if I was found.
No way in the world I'd be allowed to see...
Oh christ on a bike that's hot...
A simple white singlet and grey drawstring pants are all that encases the
most powerful body I know. Bare feet dance back and forth on the mat like
some kind of prizefighter, battling an imaginary enemy.
Right low kick, block, jab.
Sweat soaks the front of the tank, making it cling to those delectable chest
curves.
Jump, backflip.
I shift on my haunches uncomfortably.
Hard. Oh. So. Fucking. Hard.
Okay, so this could slightly be seen as.. well... pathetic.
Who cares? As long as I get to see that body, to be near enough to smell the
sweat and shampoo...
...and arousal.
*Damn* but I love that one the best.
You can't tell me that fighting and violence don't get a perfectly healthy
preternaturally strong warrior for good just a *liiiittle* bit juiced up.
Hell, for me, a good beating is pretty much foreplay. Don't really matter
whether I'm giving or receiving. All the same outcome.
And the pheremones are flying tonight...
Step, left mid kick, left high kick.
My hand slips down to my denim clad dick. Gaahh, If I don't get some soon
it's gonna fall off, I swear. Friction from my pants is driving me
absolutely batty. I just wanna whip it out and have a bit of a go, but...
If I get found out... Shit, the flunkies'll be vacuuming me up outta the
carpet for weeks.
Fuckit, I don't care. The visual stimulation is just too damned good.
And hey, what's the worst that could happen? I get caught wanking the plank
and am beaten to certain death by one of the only two beings on the planet
that have *ever* been able to kick my arse and make it mean something.
That's pretty much worst case scenario.
Oh well, as long as I can get my rocks off.
I unzip my fly and wrap my hands around my cock. My eyes drift back to the
workout, though. I can see my dick anytime.
I don't get the opportunity to watch ferocity like this and not actually be
on the receiving end...
The show changes from freestyle fighting the invisible enemy to a series of
rhythmic katas. I match the completion of each movement with a stroke of my
hand.
Guh... oh yeah. This is the unlife.
Just as I'm getting to the point of no return, this particular kata is
abandoned for one faster, more energetic, that takes less time to complete.
Who says there isn't a God?
I speed up, fangs biting into my bottom lip to keep from growling or moaning
or something. And the taste of blood in my mouth -- even my own -- just gets
to me more.
The katas turn into some kind of beautiful, violent dance. My vision blurs,
and it's like every move of arms or twist of the body is fluid and in slo
mo.
Cor, listen to me wax lyrical while I'm about to make a serious mess on the
floor, here.
With a not-so-quiet grunt, I spill over my hand.
And it's the 'not-so-quiet' part of my actions that finally draws attention
to my presence.
I am soooooo dust.
I zip up real quick. Hey, no use in making the fact that I've just splashed
all over the floor totally and *completely* obvious.
Since when did I have such a noisy zipper? I gotta remember the button
fly...
It's then I realize I can't hear anything. No footsteps, nada. Which means
I'm alone in the room (not bloody likely) or...
Or I'm getting royally stalked.
Damn stealth, I have to fuckin' *run* if I want all my parts intact. I turn
around, ready to make good my escape. Yeah, that's me -- jack off and run.
I look straight down onto a pair of perfectly pedicured feet.
I wonder whether they'll bother to erect a memorial to me.
"Here lies Spike. Staked for the sake of a quick handjob".
Erect...
Damn, wrong word.
Did I mention getting caught has its own element of danger and arousal?
"What the hell are you doing?" the voice shatters stillness and gives me
goosebumps.
And once again, painfully hard.
You know what? *Screw* lying. Nothing short of saying I'm a White House
intern is gonna explain the cum stain on my jeans. What the hell. Don't have
much to lose.
"That last routine was sloppy, luv. Shouldn't let yourself get distracted
like that."
'Incredulous' doesn't quite cover the expression I get.
"Are you *asking* for me to grievously injure you?"
"Well, a little slap and tickle now and then wouldn't hurt. Would it kill
you to shag my brains out once or tw- okay, at least four times a day?"
"You would of course, need brains to begin with...." The smirk. I get that
goddamn smirk that drives me mad. In all the good and the bad ways at once.
"If you were horny, why didn't you just say so? What's with the creeping?"
"What can I say, Peaches?" I ask as I swallow that smarmy upturn of my
sire's lips. "I've always been a bit of a voyeur."
~fin