Prompt 357 - Leonardo Da Vinci - What the F... Part 10 - BTVS - comlodge

[comlodge.livejournal.com]

Title: Afterglow
Author: comlodge
Charachters: Ensemble
Genre: Fiction, Humour, Angst, Mystery, Magical stuff
Words:
Summary: Set in an AU S6. Someone casts a spell and silliness ensues.   Part 10 of the What the F...? Series. No idea how many parts.
Rating: NC17 for sexual innuendo/misplaced breasts/self gratification/naughty thoughts/actual sexual congress/alluding to actual sexual congress/same sex sex, you know boy on boy, girl on girl/ bad spell chanting
Prompt:   Originally nekid_spike April Spring Fertility Fling  tamingthemuse - Leonardo Da Vinci
Disclaimer: You know they belong to Joss but he never wrote this stuff.
Previous Parts here. If you don't read the previous parts this won't make sense at all. If you do read the previous parts it probably still won't make sense but I'll have made you look.

Chapter Summary: Spike explores his sexuality, his body and others; the girls slumber; the slayer, slays and gods copulate... It;s a bit naughty really. Not Work Safe.

Previously on What the F…? Full on sex for Giles and Spike with a side of Xander. The mats in the Magic Box get a workout like they’ve never had before, as the girls bring each other off. Buffy smacks Willy about and realises she wants something else entirely and leaves to find it. Our Big Bad was revealed, or was he?

Read on…

Spike lay back on the damp, soiled sheets of Rupert’s bed. The room stank of sweat, lust, sex and repletion. His body hummed pleasantly. He’d been filled and used, by the watcher, with a tenderness he’d never before, felt. Not directed towards him, at least. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He’d always been about the tender, himself. But it had always been him, giving, caring, for his partner, loving them. He’d been that way with Dru, before he’d been taught how to act like a proper demon, by Angelus. He’d still felt the tenderness after, Angelus’ lessons, but he’d learned to be careful when and how, he showed it. He felt that way about Buffy, wanted to be tender for her, with her. Wasn’t allowed to show it, though. Not if he wanted to be with her. No, Buffy wasn’t about the tender.

He’d wanted the watcher, tonight. No doubt about it. He’d have liked to have been the one taking, but he was just as happy, perhaps more so, that the watcher had had him, instead. After all, he’d been well trained, back in the day, to accept the domination of an older male. Besides, sex was sex and he’d needed to be inside someone or have someone inside him, this night. Quite desperately needed it, in fact. Pity the boy had been a virgin. He could have done without the head ache, from his aborted attempt at taking him, and he knew the boy would have howled sweetly for him. He was pretty sure that Rupert was no virgin, in that respect.

His two ‘partners’ were asleep beside him. Bloody humans. No stamina! He still felt antsy, needful, despite their fun. Maybe because of it. Vampire appetites were insatiable, in all ways. His climax had been wonderful, reaching heights he rarely climbed these days, even with Buffy. Probably not since that first night, in the old building, when she had climbed him and given him what he’d lusted for, dreamed of, but never expected to attain.

Still, for him, the night so far was an appetiser. Another reason he and Buffy were so good together. They could go all night. He scratched his chest. Hmm, were his breasts smaller? He lifted his head, looked down at them. The nipples were standing erect from his small attentions. Each mound was still more than a handful. He wished he had a reflection, so that he could study them.

“Wonder if the watcher’s got one of them self-developing cameras.” He snorted at the thought. Memories of he and Dru welled up. At a carnival somewhere in Nebraska, if he remembered rightly. She’d eaten a boy who’d carried a Polaroid camera round his neck. They’d documented the rest of the night with it. Talk about candid camera. He heaved a sigh. Those days were gone. He knew it. He wouldn’t go back to that, even if the chip came out tomorrow. He’d changed, wanted more from life, wanted more than existence. Wanted to be part of something.

His idly playing hand drifted lower, to his now rigid shaft. He looked at the two men who lay on the bed beside him, as he stroked and pulled, ran a finger across the opening. The boy gave a loud snort and rolled onto his back, mouth open, drool sliding from the corners. Lovely! God, bloody humans could be so gross. His eyes moved down Xander’s body. The boy was in pretty good shape. All the sex with demon girl was obviously doing him good.

Bugger, but he was hung like a horse. Could just about give Angelus a run for his money. No wonder the bird went on about it. He was glad that it hadn’t been pushed inside him, tonight. It’d been a long time since he’d allowed another male to have him. Something that big, would have torn him for sure, no matter the preparation beforehand. The boy could suck though. His nipples still throbbed from the workout they’d been given. The kid was no slouch with a hand job either. Dru never got him off like that. Buffy either, for that matter. Probably had a lot of practice, keeping that huge todger happy.

He looked at the watcher who lay on his side, his arm across Spike’s belly, breathing out small, soft snores. Solidly asleep. For an older guy, his body was in remarkably good shape. He had a lovely cock, too. Not a monster like Harris’, but big enough to more than get the job done. As the tingling of stretched muscles in his ass, reminded him. Yes, old Rupes had hidden depths and he hoped they might plumb those depths, a little more, together. The man looked done in at the moment, though.

With a sigh, he gently moved the watcher’s arm, slid to the end of the bed and stood. He supposed he’d just have to get himself off and he thought, the shower would be a rather pleasant place to do it. He didn’t notice the blue mist that swirled around him, a pale glow in the dim light of the room.

…

At the Magic Box, the smell of sex, hung heavy in the air of the training room. The sounds of quiet breathing echoed through it, accompanied by the occasional snore. Willow, Tara and Anya were soundly asleep, bodies well used, sated, in every way. Stretched out, on the now, rather damp, training mats, sweat and other fluids drying on their skin, they lay wrapped in each other’s arms.

Their long hair fanning out, around their heads, their naked bodies bathed in soft blue light, they were the stuff of a Botticelli painting or perhaps, a Leonardo Da Vinci sketch. Small smiles played across their debauched mouths, as dreams of sex and lust, filled their heads. Soft sighs, low moans, drifted from open lips, as the replays of their night’s activities, flitted through their sleep. The hazy mist, which had lain upon them during their almost frantic coupling, curled and writhed in the air about them.

…

Buffy stood on the step, outside the closed door of Willy’s bar, and sighed. There were three vampires standing in front of her. Damn! She was on the hunt for vampire, but one specific vampire, not these three rejects from a jock club. Please, just run away, she thought to herself.

“Slayer!” The biggest one sneered out, falling into a fighting stance. His two companions did look as though they’d much prefer to run. Fear flitted through their eyes as they realised that now, they had to stay and back up their pack leader.

She sighed again. “Slayee,” she retorted, less than enthusiastically. She didn’t have time for this, but, it was her duty, she supposed. They were so going to pay, for interrupting her plans. A faint red glow coloured the irises of her eyes. Yes, they were going to pay, slowly and painfully. She reached for her stake, in its place at the centre of her back, where it lay, tucked in the waist band of her slacks.

…

“I did it my way.” Spike’s voice rang through the bathroom, as he stood in the shower, belting out his favourites. He was torturing himself as he sang. Washing his body with long, slow movements. Stroking his chest, down his abdomen, swirling the soapy cloth in his hand, into his navel, following the trail of light brown hairs down toward the nest of curls at his groin. He brushed the top of his weeping cock, lost the track of the song for a moment, as he moaned at the sensations that ran through his body.

He skirted his shaft and moved down his thighs, caressing, rubbing, cleaning, teasing. The song was forgotten now, replaced by groans and sighs. His mouth open, sounds of want and need echoed in the small room, as he worked himself into a state of heightened arousal. His hand moved the cloth to his ass, circling his cheeks lovingly, working into his crack, cleaning away the remains of the night’s exertions. His tongue licked across his bottom lip, curled behind his teeth. The muscles in his thighs quivered. The scent of his arousal filled his nostrils.

He didn’t hear the front door open and slam shut. He didn’t hear the sound of zippers opening, boots dropping to the floor, followed by other things. He didn’t hear the stealthy footsteps coming in his direction, the sounds of someone else in the bathroom, on the other side of the curtain. He didn’t see the arm rise high in the air, a dark shadow on the plastic shower curtain. He didn’t sense the danger, until the curtain was torn from the rail, as a body hurtled itself at him.

…

The sound of a flute began to fill the parlour of the old house by the sea. The music was soft, lilting, and wistfully sad. Greg Hill or rather, Ethan Rayne, raised his heavy head, opened his eyes, to peer into the darkness that surrounded him. All of the candles had burned out now and the outside light was held at bay, by the closed shutters. The room felt damp and chilly, as though the mist that curled through the undergrowth of the long neglected garden, had seeped in to it, to cover everything contained within it.

He shivered as he looked about. He could see nothing in the blackness, no variation in the air that surrounded his small circle of magic. A small, soft glow began to grow in front of where he sat, spreading out towards him. He turned to look into it. The two statues before him had changed positions. Now, the renditions of Silenus and Faunus, the ancient gods of pleasure, lust and fertility, among other things, appeared to be kissing, arms wrapped around each other. His mind babbled in confusion. This had not been part of the spell. He didn’t understand it at all.

The music rose, filling the room. The instrument producing it was not a flute, though it sounded a bit like one. He wasn’t sure what it was, but the memory of it struggled to surface. He knew this music. He knew this mournful melody. He felt a sadness and longing, blossoming in his chest. Loves lost. He knew that feeling. He’d lost his love, the man he’d once thought would be his partner for life; in crime; in chaos; in magic; in everything. It’s why he was here; sitting on this hard floor, beseeching Roman gods of old, to return what was once his.

He felt the magic swirling around him. Flames burst to life in the bowl still sitting in the centre of the circle. The puddles of burned down wax glowed to life. The crystal in the bottom of the bowl began to glow and release a red mist that rose, slowly, sensuously into the air. It spread around the man sitting on the floor, warming him. His mind drifted, his eyes losing focus so that the bowl and the things around it began to shimmer and lose their hard edges.

He realised the two small statues were now moving, writhing together as they continued to kiss. They were growing larger and he could see their aroused cocks, rubbing against each other as the bodies rocked and moved in a parody of sex. He could see the tongues entering the other’s mouth; see the hands roam the other’s body, cupping arses, probing between cheeks. They sank to the floor, still joined by mouth and hand and one mounted the other.

He felt his own shaft stir and become engorged. Felt his hands move to it without conscious thought. Moaned as they began to knead him through his clothing.

Behind him, floor boards creaked and the sound of hooves scraping on the wooden surface could be heard, over the pipes of Pan. The gods had come to Sunnydale!

…