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Title:
It Was a Dark and Stormy
Fight, Part 1
Author:
Miss Murchison
Rating:
NC-17 by Chapter 4
Disclaimer:
All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,
etc. Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.
Notes:
Eunice
convinced me that the only
logical end to Season 5 of Angel was to have Buffy, Spike and Angel
wind up as a threesome. This fic describes an interlude in that
relationship from Spike's point of view.
It seemed only right that I
should make this a trilogy, but for a long time I couldn't manage
Spike's voice. This annoyed both Angel and me, because it was keeping
me from working on "What not to Wear."
Finally, I had a serious talk with the character, explaining that if
he wanted his bit in my threesome trilogy, he'd have to start helping.
Surprisingly, it worked. And I discovered we both like alliteration.
This chapter is a silly starter to a story that gets a bit more serious. (And
if there's such a thing as a partial badfic advisory, this tale should
carry it.)
Links to the
other stories can be found at the bottom of the page.
Such a pretty, little girl, wandering all alone down this nasty, dark
alley. Her imperfect but somehow still perfectly beautiful features were
set, intent, worried, hesitant, anxious, apprehensive and concerned.
Yes, she was bloody well uneasy, even though she didn't know a bad, bad
monster was watching her every sinuous and enticing movement.
Spike frowned. He was sure he could do better than that.
She took a few more diffident steps deeper into the alley, scanning
this treacherous territory as suspiciously as a McAfee tech inspecting
an infected hard drive, either out of incipient terror or because she
didn't want to get crud and manure all over her dominatrix-style, shiny
black, calf-length boots, which barely made a sound as her tiny,
luscious feet picked their way over the stinking rubble littering her
surroundings, which were incongruous for such a choice little bitch.
Now that, thought Spike with satisfaction, is what you call a
sentence!
Her sultry blond hair, that she obviously thought no one could tell
was dyed, even though it should be self-evident even to someone who
hadn't leered at her pussy a thousand times, was twisted back, much like
a Gordian Knot, except not as complicated or undoable, into an elegant
braided twist that begged to be ripped out by an evil, lustful thing,
letting the shampoo-commercial-beautiful waves cascade down her
succulent throat.
Spike loved spying on his Slayer even more than he loved composing
purple prose in his head, but he couldn't wait any longer. The
malevolent stalker's husky, whiskey-soaked voice whipped through the
fetid air. "Come give us a kiss, love."
Buffy turned, battleaxe at the ready, peering into the shadows. Now
that the Slayer's attention was drawn by the lurid syllables of the
watching satyr's rasping voice, the dim luminosity filtering into the
gloomy, dark passageway from the faint streetlamps on the main avenue
picked up his sexy platinum curls and betrayed his clever hiding place.
Spike grinned as Buffy's eyes narrowed in annoyance.
"Spike!" She glared at him. "Why are you lurking there? And why didn't
you say you'd checked out this place already instead of just standing
there, watching me poke through all this garbage?" She waved her free
hand to indicate the detritus strewn along the cracked asphalt.
He took his time, drawling the words as he answered each question in
turn. "Done all the other streets, just like you told me to, pet. And,
too busy admiring your sweet arse in that short skirt every time you
bent over." He caught his bottom lip between his teeth and arched his
scarred eyebrow suggestively.
Buffy hesitated, tempted in spite of herself.
Spike reached one hand down to rub his crotch, thrusting his hips
forward slightly.
"You're a pig," she informed him.
"Yeah," he said. "Come on, Slayer, give us that kiss."
She dropped her weapon and joined him in the doorway, using one arm to
pull him roughly to her, mimicking his actions by taking his lip between
her own teeth and reaching down to massage his cock through the rough
fabric of his jeans.
"Not much for subtlety yourself tonight, are you, Slayer?" he said when
she pulled back enough to let him talk.
"I haven't got time for gentle dalliance. Or any dalliance." She
released him as quickly as she'd grabbed him, turning to pick up her
weapon and continue down the alley. "Stay here," she ordered over her
shoulder. "I'm sure they'll come this way soon. If you see anything,
give the alarm before you risk your butt fighting them."
Spike slumped back in the doorway, watching her retreating form until
she turned the corner. She wore a pale blue dress in some light,
silky fabric that slipped over her skin as she moved, clinging to her
breasts and thighs, outlining every curve of her slender but seductive
form. Not her usual costume for patrolling, but they'd gotten
distracted on their way home from a romantic dinner.
Still smirking, Spike reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of
fags, lighting one and inhaling slowly, pursing his lips and savoring
the lingering tenderness where Buffy'd bit down on his mouth. She'd been
just gentle enough not to break the skin and just rough enough to let
him hold on to the sensory memory of her even after her heady scent
began to evaporate from the dank alley. He stood up a bit straighter,
feeling folds of denim shift over bare skin. It wasn't just his lips
that were relishing the memory of that brief encounter.
As he finished his smoke and ground the butt into the dust, he scented
another hunter entering the alley. This was a taller, bulkier form than
Buffy's, and the newcomer carried an even bigger axe. Spike leaned back
and composed another paragraph as he waited, trying to commit the words
to memory. The Bulwer-Lytton blokes must be about ready to accept
submissions, and he thought he'd try for an award again this year.
Problem was, now that the internet had made every fangirl with an AOL
account a writer, the competition was even stiffer than his cock.
Hmmm. He'd have to work that last phrase in somehow.
Slowly, it turned, exposing its horrific profile to the dimness of
the beams of light-beams almost as dim as the thoughts that filtered
through monster's angst-encrusted brain. The top of what appeared to be
its head was distorted into inhuman shape, either by demonic influences
or the inauspicious application of stinking hair-gel. A freakishly
craggy brow loomed over the shuffling creature's torpid eyes, which
suddenly sparked dully with insane wrath-or was that a reflection of the
first stirrings of some twisted and delightfully kinky lust motivating
its turgid masculine member? And how was it that such a terrifying,
tenebrous shape could incite in the watching scrivener an obscene desire
for osculation?
"Spike, you ass," hissed Angel. "Why are you lurking there? You must
have known I'd sense you as soon as I turned the corner."
"I'm waiting for you, Angel cakes," said Spike in a saccharine tone.
"Come on, pet, give us a kiss."
Angel looked over his shoulder, and Spike began to snicker. "I think
we're alone, mate." As Angel turned back to face him, Spike caught his
bottom lip between his teeth and arched his scarred eyebrow
suggestively.
Angel hesitated, tempted in spite of himself.
Spike reached one hand down to rub his crotch, thrusting his hips
forward slightly.
Gets them every time, he thought, as Angel's axe clattered to the
ground.
Angel was either more susceptible than Buffy to Spike's come-hither
routine, or he'd already finished patrolling all the streets on his
beat, because ten minutes later, his tongue was still exploring Spike's
mouth and his hands were still on Spike's arse, lifting the smaller man
up towards him, grinding their hips together.
His literary efforts abandoned for the time being, Spike's arms were
around Angel, one hand tangled in dark hair, the other pressed hard
against a broad back. His cock was straining hard against his jeans and
Angel's own tightly-clad erection, and Spike was thinking it was past
time for someone's hands to get to work down there.
But before he could let his fingers do some walking, a voice behind them
remarked, "Well, this is sweet."
Was wondering when she'd decide to say something. I scented her
coming back here a good five minutes ago.
"Uh-" Angel looked guilty and would have pulled away if Spike hadn't
tightened his grip.
Spike rolled his eyes and bucked up against Angel, snickering again as
he watched the other man try not to let his reaction show in his face.
Well, that's about par. First he gets so hot for me he doesn't even
notice the Slayer is here, and now he tries to act like we were just
sharing a few kind words and a handshake. But why? Even Spike's
idiot grandsire should have gotten it through his head by now that Buffy
wasn't about to go green-eyed or blushingly virginal because she found
the two of them together.
He looked at the Slayer's face and stopped teasing Angel. She was
brassed off about something all right. But she wouldn't have gotten her
knickers in a twist just because she'd caught her boys having a nice
snog. For one thing, he'd verified earlier that she wasn't wearing any
knickers.
So what was wrong?
"Horny toads!" she said impatiently.
It took Spike a moment to realize that she wasn't trying to insult him
and Angel. He remembered now. Hieronytrolls. New immigrants from Eastern
Europe who had formed gangs and were tearing up this part of town. The
reason the three of them were out here groping each other in alleys
instead of shagging comfortably in their own bed.
Oh, yeah, duty. That's why Angel was looking embarrassed. He'd been so
busy investigating the forces making his trousers go all bulgy that he'd
forgotten about fighting the forces of evil.
Don't worry, Angel cakes, we weren't the only ones to get a bit
distracted. But as he looked around for his own weapon, Spike
realized that he'd catch it good from both his Slayer and his grandsire
for sidetracking them during business hours. Not right now, though.
Later on, after the three of them had dealt with the trolls.
He shouldered his axe and grinned. Pleasure before pleasure, then. First
fight, then fuck.
Unlife was good.
It was a
Dark and Stormy Fight (Part II)
Buffy's point of
view:
Shame
Bad, Sex Good
Angel's point of
view:
What Not to Wear (short and silly version)
Wear that and I'm Calling the Whole Thing off (longer but still silly)
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