spectator

The Adventures of Captain Peroxide and Deadboy

The Angel/Spike Zone of the BtVS Writer's Guild

Title: Spectator Sport (1/1)

Rating: NC17 naaughty!

Disclaimer: Joss. Joss did all the dirty work. I just came up with a smutty

alternative. Cheers, big ears.

Distribution. EN, Shibbalicious, StA, anyone else, just ask me. you know the address.

Spoilers: This is set post season 5/2. Just pretend all as it was at the end of these seasons, and maybe a couple of years have passed. No references to the new seasons. I am bereft of them, and therefore, so is my fic.

Summary: Angel's quiet night is shattered by rugby. Trust me, the fic is

better than the summary.

Notes: Hey people, I'm back! It's been a few months, but I got here. I

started this fic around the time of the Rugby Union test matches between the British (and Irish) Lions and the Australian Wallabies. That was.. maybe 3 or so months ago. I've been working with this fic on and off until then. Writer's block, other fandoms, sheer apathy all worked against it's production, but I must say, I finally got there! This fic is dedicated to some lovely people. My Tinkerbunny, for never failing to give me support and encouragement and offers of help. All i needed was the offer to spur me on to actually complete it. To the Jessmonstrr, just for being shibby putting the boot in my ass (I'll bash you if you don't write more!). And Donna, for the hilarious beta, who told me a few months ago "You're hopeless and I'm going to beat u with wet spaghetti til u write me THREE DIMENSIONAL PPL SLASH!" I hope this stops her belting me with a damp noodle.

"Goddamnit you wankers! *Defence*!"

The unholy scream shatters the perfect silence that had once been my office. The pen in my hand slips, scoring the portrait I had been drawing

Great, now my sister's face has a *moustache*.

It's the fourth time in the last half hour I've been interrupted this way.

Even three floors up and five rooms across, his voice carries as loudly and as clearly as if the bleached moron was standing outside my office in the foyer.

With an exasperated sigh, I screw up the drawing and toss it in the trash.

Didn't look right, anyway. And I should probably really be working on this unsolved case. This family has been plagued by one of its members

disappearing every second full moon under quite strange circumstances. It's quite intriguing actually, and I promised Wes I'd look--

"Pathetic bunch of nancyboy poofters! A team of six year old *girls* could play better than you!"

Hmm... that one was interesting. I wonder how it's goin--

No, no I don't. I have work to do. I don't have time to lounge about in my

underwear, beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, screaming obscenities while watching some obnoxious sports.. thing.

Mmmm.. I just remembered -- he doesn't wear underwear...

No, no, no. Work. Important. Focussed. Work.

My finger brushes against the edge of the folder. I need to work on it. I

"Pick it up. UP. The opposite of down, you Irish cockjaw!"

-- upstairs to see what the *hell* is going on.

I tidy up the file and place it neatly at the corner of my desk, before

pulling the string to turn off my lamp.

The Hyperion is silent. A few lights shine dimly, illuminating the stairs to

the second level in a soft glow.

Spike dwells in room 404; two floors above mine. I guess when I said he had the whole hotel to choose from, I didn't think he'd take me quite so

literally. Upon selecting his room, he promptly tore the adjoining door from the next room out, saying he 'liked his space'.

Or more accurately; "Come on, Angel, y'don't expect me to live in a shoebox like you, do ya?"

What I think he meant was that he didn't want to live in a shoebox *with*

me. But if he wants his freedom and if it gives me some faint feeling of

privacy sometimes, I guess I'm okay with that.

His room is the benchmark by which pigs set their standards. Spike's time occupying this 'living space' varies. Sometimes he spends days on end holed up in there -- usually during the World Cup, test matches and that 72 hour Baywatch marathon on Fox with the cable connection he thinks I don't know he's stealing.

Other times, he won't spend a day in there for weeks. Whether it's because he's succumbed to his wanderlust (read: trouble-making), or because he spends the nights with me. Even though he has the enviable talent of being one of the most annoying and irritating creatures that has ever graced the earth, I don't mind at all when he does. His cool, hard body pressed up against mine in the early hours of the morning makes the room -- and the world -- not so empty.

In the end, we both enjoy our privacy as much as our time together. And we have come to a unique understanding. I don't pester him about cleaning it up, and he doesn't make me spend the night there. Because as I've patiently explained to him, there are a few other places I would rather go to sleep.

I walk silently up the stairs. Contrary to popular

belief, I do *not* creep. I just happen to be naturally stealthy, and don't purposely stomp from one end of the hotel to the other to 'create atmosphere'.

The roar of a television crowd brings me out of my musings, and Spike's

frustrated scream cuts through the air -- and my head -- sharper than any

Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn'tve put the effort in and found Dru a nice, dumb, mute to turn.

Flickering blue light spills into the hallway. I walk to the door, carefully

standing on the fringe of darkness and observe him.

Spike sits (and I use the term loosely) in an old battered recliner. He is

shirtless. The pair of torn jeans he wears sit low, allowing the sharp

angles of his hips to become visible. Mouth set in a disgusted sneer, eyes not leaving the television set.

I check my chin. Not drooling? There's a first...

"In or out." His voice jars me out of my reverie.

"Uh, what?" Angel in a word: eloquent.

"In or out? Lurking is not an option."

"I don't lurk," I say defensively, an automatic response.

He spares me a glance, tearing those beautiful blue orbs away from the TV, telling me without words in the two seconds he looks at me what a goddamn liar I am.

"I'd forgotten what a quiet night at home is like with you around," I say as I step into his room, avoiding the piles of junk. His jaw tightens almost

"Don't much care for the crypt lifestyle anymore," he says bluntly. "Quiet

nights are overrated."

A sharp stab of sorrow and -- what else -- guilt lances through my stomach. Number 2 on the list of things not to talk about.

He haven't spoken of Sunnydale since... yeah.

Change the subject, change the subject.

"What are you watching?" It's the best I could think of, given the

circumstances. Cut me a break.

Spike sighs, the distaste on his face no longer brought on by me. "A

"Really?" My interest is piqued. Not that I think there is an *actual*

massacre on TV... they'd cut out all the really good-er... interesting

bits... right? I glance quickly at the screen. Yep, definitely sport. Suddenly I feel kind of stupid, but continue talking regardless. "I thought

"Not when the massacre's happening to *my* team, genius," He growls -- whether at the screen or at me, I'm not sure -- and shifts in the chair.

Somehow my eyes are drawn inexplicably down to his wiggling hips, and I think of how the chair is probably melding to the perfect curves of his ass.

So I have a few-track mind these days. Sue me.

I cough and look to the screen. All I can see are a bunch of yellow jerseys piling on top of a bunch of red. The little bar down the bottom which presumably holds the score proclaims in thick white letters and numerals that the Wallabies are leading the Lions 18 to 6.

"Rugby?" I query. I'm fairly sure that's what it is. Seems awfully familiar.

Maybe I was around when one of the first games was being played and fed off the spectators or something. Don't laugh, it happened.

"Massacre." Spike corrects, punctuating his statement by throwing popcorn at the screen.

Personally, I think he just likes saying the word 'massacre' again.

"I mean, what the *hell* is happening out there? The might of Britain is

being crushed by a team of fucking *rodents*."

"Actually, wallabies are marsupials, close relatives of the kanga-" He

shoots me an absolutely venomous glare. Okay... changing focus.

"What do Lions and Wallabies have to do with how the team is doing anyway?"

"It just *does*." He comments with firm conviction before adding "This is

all your fault, anyway," under his breath.

Excuse me? What am I being accused of now? In Spike's mind, I am the

ultimate jinx. If anything bad happens, somehow, somewhere, someway, it will be linked back to me, like Tupperware, or child safety lids on aspirin. Wow, story of my existence.

I sigh. "Why this time?"

He was expecting the question, because before I even have the syllable of 'time' out of my mouth, he's launched into a tirade.

"You and your goddamn country, that's why! Stupid potato-fuckers, you're ruining a perfectly good team..."

My eyes widen noticeably, though I think it's the only outward sign of my

surprise. Well, at least he's picked something new. Still...

"And exactly how have I and my goddamn potato-fucking country crushed the might of Britain?"

Spike's lip twitches at my use of his phrases. A good cuss always made him laugh, anyway. It disappears soon enough and he's back down to business.

"Because, it's not the British Lions playing the Australian Wallabies..." he

trails of knowingly, as if I'm supposed to know what he's talking about. I

give him my patented Angel Has No Idea face.

He sighs exasperatedly. "It's the British *and* *Irish* Lions, you

Still wearing Angel Has No Idea face. Oh good, he's decided to enlighten me.

"The fucking Irish kicked up a fucking stink about having fucking Irish

players on the team and no fucking mention in the team name." He turns to yell at the TV. "It's *Great* *Britain*, you wankers! Unfortunately that

already includes Ireland!"

I'd show my offence, but he doesn't need any more ammunition, and I never (consciously) paint a bullseye on my face.

Of course, I don't need to even say anything for it to magically appear

there anyway... but that's SpikeVision for you. He visibly stops shaking in anger and shakes his head sadly, leaning back.

He tsks softly. "Personally, I just think the whole episode is

Spike seems a bit calmer now, I think it's safe to open my mouth. "I still

don't see why you're blaming *me*," I try not to sound to... pouty. No

My erstwhile childe turns towards me in his chair. "You're Irish."

Translation: I'm Irish when it suits his argument to pin things on me.

He snorts. "S'pretty obvious, isn't it?"

Judging from my blank expression, obviously not.

Spike begins to number things off on his fingers. "Check out the football

players, Peaches. Large, overhanging foreheads, no necks, stupidly buff

bodies with fat asses. If you don't have anything to do with that, my name's not Spike."

"It *isn't* Spike," I remind him.

"Details, details." He dismisses with a wave of his hand, attention and

insults drawn back to the game. I walk to stand closer to his chair. He

ignores me, too wrapped up in the action on the field.

"Why do you watch this, anyway?"

He snorts at my question. It is just one of those thousands of things deemed 'too stupid to give Angel an answer', like when I ask him why I find his Docs in the freezer downstairs. But, to my surprise, Spike actually tries to explain himself.

"It's pure skill, mate. The blokes that play have to be in pretty top-notch

shape... I appreciate that kind of effort," his eyes are drawn hungrily back

to the screen. "Kinda makes me wanna expand my horizons and play..."

Oh, okay. I have to admit, it's nice to see him fired up about something

that's not too likely to end anyone's life -- human or demon. The blood is

rushing through his body and he hurls abuse at the TV screen, his eyes are sparkling, fists clenched, dick nearly bursting the seam of his jeans-- huh?

Sure enough, he has a tent pole in his pants. And I don't think it's one of

the normal ones he gets throughout the day. This one looks Special.

"Spike, a hardon doesn't count as personal growth," I gesture to his

not-so-small problem.

"Lucky for you then, eh?" he quips, turning and eyeing my problem area which has been giving me trouble with standing still for the last five minutes.

What? It's not like I ever *claimed* I was perfect.

I want to defend myself but can't seem to. One; because there's nothing to defend and Two; he's already forgotten me in favour of the game again.

There's nothing much else for me to do than just stand there as he gets

horny watching football. Okay, I'm all for things that put Spike in the

mood, but when he ignores me for them, that's when I take offence. I'm not being unreasonable, just protecting my interests.

Goddamnit, I keep him around because I love how he makes me feel wanted. If he doesn't want me -- then what?

I look down at Spike, all ready to tell him he can jerk off to as much

football as he likes, because he's not gonna get anything from me when... he crosses his legs. This in itself is not a big cosmic event, but the inner seam of his jeans is ripped. The denim opens, revealing a tantalising strip of pale skin that travels right up near... uh...

I just have the greatest desire to find out what that specific patch of skin

What? No. I was angry with... something. I don't quite remember what, but it had something to do with my boy and the way his tongue is running over the blunt edges of white teeth and oh *god* I need to get laid.

I manage to drag my eyes up from his legs to find him still watching the

game, but... his eyes... and his mouth. He's laughing at me, I know.

Spike feels my gaze (has all along) and looks up at me. The biggest irony in existence is the way he can turn those baby blues into the most soulful pools of innocence that it would make lifelong virginal nuns weep with envy.

"Something the matter, Angelus?"

Ohhh, he's so good... but then again... he had a great teacher.

Hang on, since when did *he* become the king of the Unassuming Seduction (tm)? I've been doing that most of my souled and unsouled existence. I'll be damned (again) if he's going to beat me at my own game...

With a confidence and a resolve I don't really feel inside, I tear my eyes

away from perfect pink lips and stare at the TV intently.

"Nope. Mind if I watch the game?"

His eyebrow raises a fraction, but he just shrugs non-committally.

I sit down on the bed not a foot away from him and become absorbed in the game. And you know... he's right about some things... it does kind of get the blood pumping. I'm not attracted to any of these guys -- always had more of a thing for shorter, unnatural blonds, myself -- but there is an excitement and a primal energy I just can't help but be sucked into.

Oh yeah, pants kinda tight and uncomfortable in all the right places.

I shift on the edge of the bed, eyes never leaving the set. My peripheral

vision is excellent, though, and I see Spike begin to fidget. The scent of

my arousal always did that to him. Nice to know some things haven't changed.

When my tongue comes out to moisten my lips ever so slightly as I lean

forward, that sets him on edge.

When a small appreciative noise rumbles in my throat, that makes his teeth grind.

When my hand strays across the fabric of my thigh, creeping closer and

closer to my crotch, that makes him lose it.

His growl arcs up over the tinny roar of the television crowd. With the

speed and accuracy I have come to expect from him, he leaps off the chair and on to me, pinning my back to the mattress.

"I'll show *you* personal growth," he hisses before clamping that insolent mouth down over mine. He tastes like potato chips, cherry pop tarts and O neg. And I have to say, it's delicious. Don't knock it unless you've tried it.

I tear my lips away from his with considerable effort. "Do you mind? I was watching the game,."

"Nothing makes you horny but *me*," he says with quiet, deadly conviction, before attacking my mouth once again.

His left hand is fisted in my hair, the right tearing at my shirt. It's not

long before it's hanging in shreds off my shoulders. Spike plants stinging bites over my pectorals and stomach, soothing the discomfort after each one with his tongue.

He drags his lips down over the hard column of flesh still encased in my

pants and oh god, did *I* make that noise? I suppose so, he's laughing at

The small part of my brain not totally focusing on the sensations he's

producing argues with me that he has got all the control, and that's

something I rarely let him have.

But you know what? Fuck it. It doesn't matter as long as he keeps doing what he's doing. Because if he stops, I'm going to kill him.

Right now, he's peeled my trousers and boxers down over my hips and is heavily breathing into my lap, making all my hairs quiver. Yes. *All* my

With a sharp tug, the rest of my clothing is gone. He looms over me like

some pagan god in threadbare Levis about to devour the sacrifice.

Hands come down, balancing his weight on my thighs, as his mouth slowly engulfs my erection.

There's not much to be aware of. Only my cock and his mouth and the intense *feeling* of pleasure, of contact and of his name being ripped from my throat.

Well, I think it's his name. I hope he knows I was trying to say his name.

It sort of came out like 'Waaiiiiiiiggmmppffhgmmaaaahhh'.

Never let it be said he can't do anything of note with that mouth. It just

so happens talking isn't one of them.

He releases me, but I catch the dark promise in his eyes. He's not finished. I'm not finished.

*We're* not finished.

Spike has amazing hands. Amazing because they are lightening fast and yet somehow linger in all the right places. Right now one is creeping up over the skin of my hip, and the other traces the lines of the muscles in my leg, running down behind my thigh to my knee -- oh fuck, how can he make touching the back of my *knee* sexy?! -- all the while licking and sucking on the smooth skin just underneath my navel.

I feel warm breath as he laughs. I know what he's thinking. I do *not* have a little Buddha belly! But if reprimanding him means making him pissed enough to stop, I'm gonna let it slide.

He stretches out to blanket my body with his own, each delightful muscle, curve and ridge pressing down on my own. His own arousal is pressed to my stomach, still encased in jeans. I can only begin to moan as he licks the line of my jaw and the underside of my chin.

Then those hands start to work again... they travel down my torso, slip

between us and holy mary mother of god touch me there again *please*. He plays with me with a psychotic tenderness that I don't expect and I'll be damned if I can fully comprehend. He must think he's using Chinese worry balls.

"Sp.. please Spike...," I manage to bite out, hands desperately tugging at

his jeans. With an air of barely contained superiority and control, he

strips out of his jeans and throws them... somewhere. I don't know where, I only care that they're gone and his naked, warmed skin is flush against my own.

My pleas are lost to his ravenous kiss. There's noise of shuffling, or

something. One of those hands has left my body (put it back, put it back!)

and is... under the bed? Looking for something, I suspect. He sucks on my bottom lip triumphantly. Not three seconds later, those hands and their fingers are cold and wet and... oh... hell...

Spike laughs huskily at me again. He loves making me lose it and groan like a rutting bear. I don't care. I never care. Until afterwards, of course.

But right now, I'll fuck any grizzly that comes along.