smokingmirror | Fanfic: Voyeur (1/1) (Reply)

Title: Voyeur
Author: Avarice
Rating: R
Pairing: S/?
Spoilers: -
Summary: Spike likes to watch. With his hands.
Word Count: 914
Date First Posted: 2001
Date Revised - 13-05-2011
Beta: -
Awards: -
Notes: Improv fic - relationshippy! I have to stop it with the twisty endings, srlsy.
Feedback: always welcome, as is constructive criticism.

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 realise 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."

~finis