edit: I did a little touch up on this chappie, nothing major, though.


A/N: I want to thank BloodyTearsOfLife for her wonderful beta-job!!


Disclaimer: I don't own any of it, I think I would know if Spike was mine. . .






Telly Time


A tiny woman stalked through the cemetery, unconcerned of all the dangers and nasties that might lurk in the shadows of a pleasant California night. Her blonde hair was slightly ruffled from her last kill and her face was set in a mask of grim determination as she neared her destination.




Buffy stormed into the crypt, her need for release of the sexual variety was obvious to everyone who looked at her. The fact that she was almost frantically discarding her clothing as she made her way into her vampire’s home would have clued in even the dumbest Fyarl demon out there.




The vampire in question, however, lacked his usual eager puppy dog reaction to her arrival and the cloud of arousal that surrounded her. Instead his eyes where glued to the small new television set that he had acquired the other day. His rigid posture on the edge of the seat was only broken when he jumped up to yell and gesture wildly at the small coloured screen or to take a few nervous puffs from his cigarette and gulp down several swallows of his beer.




The Slayer stopped in her tracks, gaping at the scene before her when she noticed that she wasn't getting her accustomed reception from the normally overly amorous blonde who'd have had her half way to her first orgasm by now. She stared dumbfounded as he once again leaped out off his recliner and growled obscenities at the TV. She thought she even saw his game face flicker on and off during his rant about half witted nancy boys, who got paid way too much dosh for their own good and were too bleeding stupid to run properly.




"NOO!! You effing pillock, pass on the ball to the other flank, Lampard's all free!" he growled angrily at the tiny figures that were chasing the ball to and fro all over the field.




"Posh finally screwed the last of your brains out or what? You’re playin' like a complete plonker!" he snarled when the screen showed a close up of a well built blonde player, who, obviously, lost the ball once again to someone from the other team. "Yeah, well, named your sprogs Brooklyn, Romeo, and Cruz, all good and proper British names, ponce," he snorted with disdain and resumed his seat. In light of the unfolding drama, the bottle of his cherished English beer was traded for his entrusted friend Jack.




When he still didn't acknowledge her presence, after he'd taken a healthy swig of the whiskey, she cleared her throat loudly and got even more irritated when she was completely ignored. She all but growled his name this time.




"SPIKE!"




His head swivelled to face her. He seemed to be surprised to find her in his home and regarded her with contemplative expression. But not without the occasional glance back to the screen.




"What?" he asked somewhat distractedly. He seemed to be almost frustrated with her presence and her nerve to invade his precious ‘telly time’.




She shot him a pointed glare and and swept her hand down her now nude body in a motion perfected by countless generations of hostesses who presented the grand prices on those senseless game shows he tended to watch when he got too bored during the daylight hours.




He shot her a blank look at first, before he finally took in her current state of undress and the scent of her arousal that perfumed the otherwise stale air of the crypt.




"Finished your patrol already, pet?" he asked with a barely concealed trace of disappointment in his voice, his shoulders slumped.




Not at all the reaction she had hoped for, when she had rushed through her first quick sweep through Sunnydale's final resting grounds, anxious to get to his crypt.




When the sound of angry whistles and shouts drifted over from the television his posture went rigid. He turned back around to investigate what was going on and she was ignored. . . again.




Her shock from his callous treatment of her wore off soon enough, and with an indignant huff, she stalked over to stand in front of the TV-set, her hands on her hips. "Yes I'm finished. What's wrong with you Spike? we both know why I'm here, shouldn't you already... you know?"




"What? Shag you senseless ‘til you can't remember your own name?" he queried absentmindedly as he tried to get a look at the TV around her, craning his neck from the left then to the right and back again. "Maybe later. Come by in... about an hour. 'm busy."




"What?" she squeaked out, staring at him slack jawed. Had she fallen into another dimension? Because there could be no way Spike would turn down the chance to have sex with her, could there?




"Slayer, 's much as I love your pert little bum, do you think you could move it away from the telly?" he finally requested somewhat gruffly when she still didn't move.




Buffy slowly moved to the side, a bewildered frown crinkled her brow "You'd rather watch some stupid soccer game than have sex. . . spend time with me?" she asked dejectedly.




'Uh oh, better be careful now mate,' Spike thought as he picked up on Buffy's change in demeanour and the insecurity that coated her voice.




He was out off his chair and had her scooped up before she even noticed he had moved. He returned to his recliner and plopped down with her perched securely on his lap, nuzzling her neck affectionately. "You should know by now that I love you more than anything, kitten. I'd never choose a game of football over my golden goddess."




"But?" she prompted, although she was immensely relieved to know that she still had his love, even if she ignored why that was suddenly so important to her.




"It's the World Cup, luv," he whined almost piteously. "An' England's reached the quarter finals," he added with an adorable pout.




'Damn, that lip should be illegal!' She heaved a sigh. "Fine, how long will it take ‘til they are finished?"




His whole face lit up as he beamed at her. "It won't be longer than an hour, one and a half at most. I promise I'll make it up to you, pet. I'll have you come until you pass out from ecstasy." The last part was purred seductively into her ear with a little nip to her lobe, before he nibbled his way along her jaw line. Her reaction was instantaneously as her body flushed with desire.



She experimentally started to wriggle in his lap and grinned in triumph when she elicited a lusty growl from his lips.




The sounds of the football game drifted through the lusty haze that clouded his mind and with one last hard kiss, he gripped her waist and hauled her over the armrest of his chair in a swift move that had her squealing in surprise and planting her firmly on her feet.




"Why don't you grab a pony an' head over to the Bronze, kitten. Get us spicy buffalo wings and some of those flowering onion things. If you hurry you can be back right in time for half time an' I'll give you a little... appetiser," he told her with his best leer and that sexy smirk with the curled tongue that always made her knees go weak.




"Huh?" she articulated, having just realised that she wouldn't be getting him away from the TV any time soon and stared at him with a confused look. 'God please don't tell me the big ho's insanity was contagious after all...' "Pony?" she mumbled.




Spike rummaged through the pockets of his duster that was draped over the back of the chair and handed her some bills. "Money, pet. It's a British expression," he told her with a smile before he turned his attention back to the game.




Buffy, now fully dressed, just took the money and shook her head as he started to gesture and grumble at the screen once again. "You know, you English guys are majorly weird," she commented sullenly, but he was already fully absorbed in the game and didn't hear her.




She huffed once more for good measure as she stalked over to the door. "That appetiser damn well better be good," she muttered to herself as she stomped out of the crypt to get the food.



The End (or is there interest in a smutty chapter two??)