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A Spectator Sport by ClawofCat
Author's Note: This fic is set in my "All Wrong" verse, but you need not have read that story to enjoy this porny romp.

Thanks to Eowyn_315 for her beta work. This story was at the request of only_passenger, who asked in an LJ post:

“where is the buffy/spike porn where older, post-series buffy watches her post-series lover spike beat off, but it's a regular, casual thing, because they live and shower and grocery shop together, and she laughs (not giggles) when he starts and it's the middle of the day and no one is fighting or crying, and she looks on in close range and they flirt and talk about it while it's happening, interspersed with other bits of commonplace conversation, and they both smile the whole time and she's delighted and deeply turned on when he comes.”


“I can carry all of them, you know,” Buffy said, as Spike ascended the stairs in front of her with six grocery bags in hand. He listed slightly to one side, the O.J. and milk weighing him down.

“Course you can, luv. Could bloody bench press me if you liked, but where’s the chivalry in lettin’ you do all the heavy liftin’?”

Buffy watched Spike teeter as he reached the top step, but he quickly regained his footing on the landing. He was just so stubborn sometimes. He had become even more so recently, especially when he was free of his demon, and all that walked in his shoes was a man. It was never easy for him, and she tended to indulge him in most things when he was in this state. Truth be told, though, she certainly didn’t mind the Big Bad playing grocery man, either. Her head tilted to the side as he flexed a bicep and rested himself in front of their apartment door, his eyes fixed on her as she trudged up behind him.

“’Sides, Mama deserves a break every now and then, yeah?”

She smiled at the new pet name, at the tempered, soft way he drew in her body with his eyes. Placing the bagged items down against the wall, Spike pulled Buffy into his embrace. She looked on, her long-standing inability to make eye contact left behind in the refuse pile of her past insecurities. She wasn’t afraid to look anymore, and wasn’t afraid of what she saw in those deep baby blues.

One hand came up to frame her face, his fingertips skimming along the slightly rounded bloom of her cheek. She raised her arm in kind to rest on his shoulder where she plucked at the collar of his jacket.

“You sure know how to get to a girl,” she murmured, and brought her lips up to his. The kiss was soft, quiet, patient. That was something she had learned, too. When your life wasn’t perpetually on the line, all of a sudden an entire world of quiet, stolen moments opened up to you. They were the in-betweens of everyday living: the first groggy roll in bed after waking, standing at the vanity in the bathroom as you spit toothpaste into the sink, rearranging the cushions on the sofa after a day out, or locking up the house when the day was done. Spike always seemed to slide into those lost, fleeting moments and settle himself there, comfortable, at last, with the peace and quiet that domesticity could bring.

“Would hate to think I’ve lost my touch,” he whispered to her, his mouth dancing along her neck, her ear, her brow. One hand trailed down into the soft fluff of her jacket, and pressed upward onto her breast, weighing the heaviness of it in his palm. Her back arched slightly, and she tightened her grip on the carton of eggs tucked under her right armpit. Dawn would flip if she couldn’t wake to her usual morning omelet. His fingers skimmed the waistband of her jeans, and crept under her top to feel the warmth of her skin and the swell caused by the babe in her belly. As she got larger, his fascination with her body only increased, and it humbled her knowing how lucky she was to have her preternatural lover.

He rubbed light circles into her abdomen while teasing her breasts with flicks and pulls. It reminded her of that childhood game where you try to rub your stomach and pat your head at the same time.

Between soft, sucking kisses Buffy managed to breathe out, “We should get the meat in the freezer. Things put away. Remember…remember what happened last time?”

Spike pulled back and rested his forehead on hers. A rumble started in his throat. “Hm, yeah. Just about ruined a weeks worth of groceries. Wouldn’t do to tread all over the Bit’s nosh while trying to get my hands down your knickers.”

Buffy laughed lightly and pushed him away. “There’s time enough for that. Let’s do the grown-up thing first.”

As they hauled the groceries in, Buffy was aware of Spike’s hot gaze on her as he slipped furtive glances her way. He was up to something; she just knew it. When she turned back to look at him, he had his head buried in the fridge, rearranging the shelves to make space for everything. Okay, so maybe his up to something was on hold for the moment.

While he tended to the perishables, she busied herself with gathering up the cleaning supplies and detergent to deposit them in the pantry. Taking care of a household had been something she always used to take for granted, or completely ignored, depending on where she was post-resurrection. But they were doing it now, and it made her proud. Normal still held a place in her heart, a pristine, idealized country where she aspired to vacation, and she had achieved that with Spike. Because of him, her life had taken this quieter turn, grocery shopping an exercise in restraint when they entered the produce isle, clothes shopping one huge dress-up session. Walking back into the kitchen, she thought, Things are definitely of the good.

“I’m going to hop in the shower for a bit. Feeling a little ick right now,” she said, as she finished arranging pears and apples in a basket on the kitchen counter. “I think my hair has officially turned the corner into grease-ball territory.”

Spike looked at her over his shoulder, a few cups of yogurt held against his chest. “Have your wash, then. I’ll finish up in here while the missus beautifies herself.”

Shooting him a saucy grin, Buffy made her way into the bedroom, her feet soundlessly padding across the carpeted interior. As soon as the bathroom door closed, he was up, a mischievous smirk spreading across his face.


“Not exactly rocking Ms. Chiquita Banana here, am I?” Buffy said to her reflection, eyeballing the towel that she had piled on top of her head once she had stepped out of the shower. She unwound it and flipped her head forward to towel dry her darkened locks instead. Her meeting with Giles wasn’t until later in the evening, which gave her plenty of time to dally over hair, makeup, and clothes if she was so inclined.

Combing through the tangled strands with her fingers, she opened the door to her bedroom and stopped abruptly when she took in the scene before her. She had seen and done any number of debauched things with Spike, been in positions that, had she been able to see herself, would have made her blush and stammer, but this just about took the cake. A peal of laughter slipped from her lips, her eyes dancing with delight.

“Very nice,” she murmured with approval, leaning against the frame of the door.

Spike had pulled to one side of their bed a high-backed chair from the dining room, and placed it so it faced the bathroom door. As for Spike himself, well, he was quite prominently displayed as well.

“Been waitin’ for you, Slayer,” he rumbled, grasping his naked cock in his hand and giving it a languorous pull. He had purposefully mussed his hair to give himself post-shag bedhead. The best kind, she thought as he looked up through his lashes with artificially sleepy eyes.

“Really?” Buffy’s eyes traveled over him appraisingly. “Gotta say, I don’t remember leaving you quite like this.”

“Hm, should know better than to leave me to my own devices, pet. I get up to all sorts of trouble.”

Spike trailed his hand down his chest enticingly as he sat slouched in the chair and flicked his own nipple. He watched her reactions closely.

“Yeah, gotta put that thing on a leash,” she murmured absently, nodding at his proud cock, a grin tickling her lips. She watched his hand slowly descend down his shaft to pull the foreskin taut, and then back up again. He licked his lips and arched his back imploringly, a wanton sigh of pleasure drifting from his parted lips. If she had been pressed for an answer, in her professional opinion, slow-mo wankathons were the best form of thrall. It got her salivating and ready to pounce in no time.

“In fact,” she added, “maybe we should.”

Buffy padded over to her bureau and shuffled through a drawer until she held up a cock ring. She raised her brow in question and turned to him.

His head was tipped back slightly, and he sighed while clenching his thighs, which were spread wide and hooked over the arms of the chair. His balls hung heavy between his legs, and his asshole flexed and puckered as he strained upward into his own grip.

Spike clucked his tongue and chuckled. “Think I’m in need of an audience, actually. I just love being scored on my performance.”

She pouted. “Darn, and I don’t have any score cards to flash.”

“Got other things you can flash, though. All sorts of tasty goodies. Blokes got to have some positive reinforcement.”

She murmured in agreement and went into the bathroom to retrieve a stool. When she returned, her robe was open and hung loosely on either side of her. Settling herself down, she watched Spike’s seductive performance with a wistful smile. They had their bad days; really, really bad days when everything just seemed to be falling to pieces around them and between them, but then there were pockets of time like this. Time stood still for them during these suspended intimate encounters. She could just be Buffy, and he could just be Spike; and they could remember what it was to smile again, to take joy in the carefree play of sexuality that both of them never had a chance to experience on their own terms.

With each jerk of his cock, Buffy banished the bad memories of shame and worthlessness that she felt under the scrutiny of other men, under the weight of her desire. Spike offered himself up freely as an object for her consumption; he always had, but she knew to appreciate it now, knew what it did for her.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Spike whispered, his eyes hooded, as he watched her watching him. His breaths hitched along to the languid rhythm he had established, his hips arching ever so slightly toward his fist, toward her.

“Just thinking about the past. How far everyone’s come, how time has just…inched and flown at once. How I never had this when it would have counted.” She looked earnestly at him, her eyes downcast and sincere. “How I wish you could have been my first and saved me all the shit that had to happen to get to this point.”

Spike picked his head up, his nostrils flaring. “I would have taken you there, Buffy. Even a sweet, virginal little princess such as yourself. Would have made you scream.”

“You make me scream now,” she countered with a smile, slowly parting her legs beneath her robe so that a dark patch of pubic hair became visible to Spike’s gaze.

He licked his lips and squeezed himself harder, his eyes boring into hers. “And I’m bound to do it again soon enough.”

“Not until you finish,” Buffy murmured. “I want to see…” Even now, Buffy fumbled over the words, never really having mastered the dirty talk that Spike seemed to excel at. She forged onward, though. “See you shoot your load all over the place. Get it on your hands, your…so I can come over there and lick it up.”

“No shrinking violet anymore, are you?” he groaned. He jerked the base of his cock rapidly, alternating the rhythm erratically so that Buffy could see his varying reactions. “I like a woman who knows what she wants. If I’d deflowered you, how would you have wanted it?” he demanded. “Slow, hard, fast…?” He thrust his hips out, and began to rock with them, causing his balls to sway. The chair creaked under Spike’s ministrations, seemingly straining along with him to find release.

“Do it like you would if you were fucking me right now,” Buffy said, her breath shallow, panting. Spike set a slower pace, his hand still gloving his erection, but now using his hips to set the pace instead of his hand. The strokes were short but deep - a rhythm she knew well.

“Eight point five for effort,” she husked, and spread her legs wide, so that he could see her glistening cunt.

“Jesus, fuck,” he moaned. “Going to take the minx on a tour round the apartment ’fore the night is done.”

“Every flat surface shall know thy wrath,” she laughed, dipping her index finger into her sex to rub at the slippery, clear lubricant. “We only broke the coffee table once. That’s an improvement over the old days, right?”

Spike grunted in agreement, and reached down to roll his balls in his other hand, tugging at the flushed skin. Perspiration formed above his upper lip, at the juncture of his thighs, along his lower back. Buffy watched the tug-o-war he started with his sac, and tweaked her clit absently.

“What would you do if I got up and fucked you in the ass right now?” Buffy blurted, her eyes wavering between Spike’s straining sphincter and the heavy rise and fall of his chest. Her fingertips traced the edges of her sex rapidly, sending small courses of pleasure to her center.

Spike’s eyes went wide, and a guttural groan broke out as he pumped rapidly, his cock turning a dark shade of pink. At a momentary loss for words, he tried to piece together a coherent response over the thudding din of his pulse in his throat, his cock, but Buffy interrupted him.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? Spreading your ass like that, putting yourself on display. Do it. I want to see how you want to be fucked.”

Buffy rose from where she sat to stand in front of him. Spreading the lips of her pussy wide, she pumped her fingers in and out until they were thoroughly coated in her slick. She wafted her hand below Spike’s nose, and he growled deep, murmuring words of praise and pleasure as he was inundated with her scent.

“I know you wanted this to be a spectator sport, but…” she said, her lips covering his as her fingers spread her arousal around his asshole in tight circles, pressing gently into his sphincter. Spike cried out hoarsely, his ass rising off the seat of the chair convulsively, but she kept her mouth clamped over his and drank in his moans.

“Your turn,” she said teasingly against his lips, and removed her fingers so that his could take her place.

He growled at her as she backed away to return to her vigil on the stool. “You dirty little bitch,” Spike gasped, teetering on the brink of his control. “What a mouth. Gonna put it to good use once I lock and reload. Wouldn’t have fancied you for a miner under the goody-two-shoes act, but I knew,” he panted. “Knew the second you jumped my bones in that house. There was nothing you wouldn’t do,” he cried as his index finger slipped past the tight ring of muscle and into his rectum.

He continued to draw circles with his finger internally, widening and stretching his hole to receive more. His other hand ceased to jerk his cock, and instead held it in a vise grip to stave off his orgasm.

“Your bum getting twitchy over watchin’ the main attraction?” he groaned, thrusting two fingers evenly in and out of himself. “Don’t worry. You’ll get yours. Gonna have that arse in the air and you begging me to slip you some tongue in no time. Know how it gets you going, the feelin’ of it sliding along all those forbidden places. Yeah…oh fuck!” he cried, his fist unevenly jerking in time with the fingers planted in his ass.

Buffy’s eyes were dilated wide, little torturous moans escaping her own lips as she listened to Spike describe her own sexual appetites while he fucked himself. Squeezing her breast in one hand, she rocked her hips along the seat of the stool, her clit rubbing against the terry of her bathrobe.

Spike’s erotic litany stopped, so that all that passed his lips were ragged whimpers and whines as his thighs trembled, and his lips twitched when he began to spend in a frantic rush.

“Ugh! Fuck! Buffy…uhn,” His head rolled as he cried out, eyes shut tight, trembling with release. His cock spurted semen across his hands, his stomach, his chest, mingling with the tangy sweat of his exertions. Watching him climax always took her by surprise at his utter abandon in the act. Where other men grunted, sighed, or made very little noise at all, Spike reveled in the sensation and gave himself over to it completely – just like her.

As the last of his spurts subsided and his cock empted, he released his softening prick and lay still to catch his breath. He opened his eyes when Buffy’s fingers found his lips.

“I give it a ten,” she whispered, crawling on his lap as he unhooked his legs from the arms of the chair to stretch them out in front of him. Her groin slid along his slick belly, and she rubbed her slit across the pools of come that clung to him.

“It’s like Water Country USA over here,” she teased, dipping a finger into his ejaculate and placing the tip of her finger on his nose.

“Gonna be like bloody Vesuvius erupting when I’m through with you” he swore, his slick hands sliding along her belly to cradle the bulge there.

She laced her fingers over his and peered down at her stomach. “Baby can never claim that Daddy never gave Mommy lots of lovin’.”

Spike’s eyes sparkled. “Not before a rinse, though. Made a bit of a mess, it seems. Think I might be able to get some assistance?” he asked, twining Buffy’s damp hair in his fingers.

“But I just showered,” she pouted, looking down at the mess between them. “No fair.”

Spike smiled with mirth and whisked her up into his arms. Setting her down onto the chair, he knelt in front of her, his hands resting along her thighs. “Think I can do a thing or two ‘bout that. No need to be cross,” he assured her, dipping his tongue forward to skim across her belly. She wriggled as he lapped at his spendings and snuffled against her. One sneaky hand made its way between her legs and slid into her smoothly, fingers tipping upward to rapidly massage her sweet spot. Buffy’s breath hitched on a surprised gasp. Overcome by an involuntary spasm, she groaned and snaked her hand roughly into his hair.

“Shower. Now.”

Giles would have to wait.