|
Title: It Was a Dark and Stormy Fight, Part 4 Author: Miss Murchison Rating: NC-17 This is a threesome. 'Nuff said. 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. Part I of this story can be found here. Other links can be found at the bottom of the page. Special thanks to DorothyL and Elinora for the beta and Keswindhover for the suggestions and the scurrilous comment that I hate to let go of a fic, which made me finally post.
Spike's up. . .
When Spike woke again, he was still cradled in Buffy and Angel’s arms. He sensed immediately that hours had passed. The sun would be well-up outside the carefully shaded bedroom. And, he noted with an internal smirk, Angel was well up too. Again or still, I wonder? It would be like Angel to suffer in silent agony, instead of slipping a furtive hand down to take care of his problem and hope Buffy wouldn't notice. He took in a careful breath, concentrating on the Slayer's scent. His grin grew. He was pretty sure she was in much the same case as Angel. But were either of them dealing with the impulses that had to be dominating their frontal lobes as well as their nether bits? No. They were arguing again. “All I wanted to do was make some plans for tonight. But if I open my mouth and don’t mention Spike, you act like I just staked him.” “We can’t leave him out, not out of a battle, and not out of anything else. You know that. He’s a part of us, Angel.” “I know, Buffy, but—we had a history before him." Yeah, and without me you two would have stayed history. Or you'd be so busy trying to decide who should be on top you wouldn't even enjoy shagging. Without me here to distract you from your egos, one of you would have stormed out the door long ago. You need me, in between. Literally in between, now, and Spike had to admit he'd landed in much worse places. “And you two had a history before you ever knew me.” There was envy in Buffy’s tone. And a sorry tale that was, too, if you only knew the whole of it, love. Spike turned his head ever so slightly and opened his mouth, letting his lips caress the soft curve of one of Buffy's breasts. To her, it must have seemed that he only stirred in his sleep, but he heard her heartbeat speed up and felt her skin glowing a degree or two warmer. "Buffy, you really exaggerate his effect--" Tuning out the argument taking place over his head, Spike began to compose again. The pitifully injured but steadfastly brave, handsome, sexy, and ever-modest hero scorned to join in the petty wranglings of his companions, choosing instead to courageously explore the pallid, rosy-tipped mounds that presented themselves as a feast to his parched but clever lips, as his own nether orbs moved with accidental deliberation in stealthy but arousing reconnaissance of his grouchier companion's joy stick, and feeling a certain not-terribly-reluctant satisfaction, a shadenfreude even, as he unmistakably jarred Capt'n Cantankerous out of his stultifying melancholia, shutting up the bloody speechifying for once. Ignoring Angel's gasp as he bumped against him, Spike nuzzled deeper into Buffy, lips moving again, his tongue darting out to trace a path downward, lapping up the salty sweat that ran down the sweet valley between her breasts. It tasted more divine than the blood Angel had fed him earlier. His left hand crept along her belly, slid down to her thigh. She stirred against him, opening her legs slightly and seeming not to notice Angel's sudden silence. She had to know by now he was awake. He looked up and saw she was biting her lip to avoid revealing his surreptitious caresses to Angel, her expression intent, her eyes wide. He licked a wide swathe along the tender underside of one breast, just as his hand slipped between her thighs, finding her warm, moist center. No, Angel wasn't the only one who'd been lying awake, aroused and frustrated. Spike smirked victoriously. A moment later, Angel's voice startled him. "I think he's waking up." "Yeah, I think maybe he's up," said Buffy in a strangled voice as Spike's thumb found her clit. Spike shifted his bottom, moving away from Angel so that his erect cock rested against her thigh. "Oh, yeah," said Buffy, "he's up." Her hand touched Spike's cheek, trying to coax his tongue away from her nipple. "I think maybe he's hungry." Spike lifted his head for a moment. "Yeah. Could use some more of that blood. How about it, grandpa?" Angel muttered a curse, but he was out of the bed quickly enough, and a moment later Spike heard the refrigerator door open and slam shut, and the beep of the microwave. He lapped at Buffy's breast again, ears drinking in the thud of her heartbeat as the smell of warming blood filled the apartment. She sat up, swatting him on the butt. "Hey, I'm an invalid!" he protested, sitting up. "I think you've got the tense wrong," she retorted. "Here, drink this." Angel was sitting next to them on the bed, covers yanked over his legs and abdomen, having reappeared with the suddenness of a character from Alice in Wonderland. Spike took the mug and quickly downed more than half the contents, noting with annoyance that his hand shook a bit. He was even more annoyed when Angel noticed and reached out to help steady the mug. Well, if life gives you lemons-- Spike brought his other hand up to the mug as if on the same errand, but instead he let it collide with Angel's, spilling a few drops over his fingers. "Careful, mate!" he said testily. "I was just—" Angel was now staring at the red-stained fingers Spike was holding directly in front of his face. "Shame to waste it," said Spike. "Looks like you're a bit peckish too." In fact, he could sense the waves of desire and hunger possessing Angel's demon, and it was no surprise when his fingers were suddenly caught in Angel's mouth, being licked and sucked clean. "Want some more?" Forgetting pretense, Spike dipped his fingers in the mug and held them out, letting the viscous fluid drip down to his palm. Angel seized his wrist and held it as his tongue lapped up every drop. The blood was gone in a few seconds, but Angel continued to lick and suck Spike's fingers as if under compulsion. Spike followed Angel's worried glance in Buffy's direction, but the Slayer was licking her own lips as she watched the two of them play. Encouraged, Spike tipped the few drops of blood left in the mug over his chest and belly and lay back to enjoy the inevitable. Angel carefully washed Spike clean of blood, laving his nipples with particular attention until his victim was moaning with something that was definitely not pain. On Spike’s other side, Buffy was curled up, her lips tickling his cheek and earlobes as she watched Angel's progress. One hand slipped along his thigh to play with his cock while Angel's mouth teased the closing wound on his side where a bandage had slipped away. His grandsire's tongue was rough but not too painful, and faint taste of Spike's blood was inflaming Angel even more than the human dregs from the cup had done. Spike didn't mind the others hearing his moans now, and he made no effort to stifle them. But Buffy hushed him by leaning over to kiss him deeply, just as Angel abandoned Spike's wounds to concentrate on his swollen cock. Spike’s body jerked convulsively beneath them, fighting not pain but pleasure, as he strove for self-control, not wanting to bring their play to a premature end. Several minutes later, he was panting hard, and Buffy's hands were running over his chest, playing with his nipples, while Angel was being a bit rougher with his cock. Spike moaned again, and Buffy murmured against his lips, "Still in pain?" "It's Angel. I'm being manhandled." "How shameful. I'd better take things into my own hands." She slipped down and suddenly there were two sets of hands and two sets of lips competing to drive him mad.
The King of
Contumacy himself abandoned his misery at least momentarily to join
the Salacious Slayer in a game--a game of ball, with the injured but
erect hero as Monkey in the Middle, in a new variation of the sport
much superior to that played by brats on the streets, as both his
devilish ministering Angel and his beauteous Buffy sucked hungrily on
his nuts, as if feasting on some succulent fruit, like Spike found himself unable to concentrate on either literary endeavors or the fading pain of his wounds. He let Angel roll him onto his uninjured side and begin tracing a path along his spine and arse with blunt teeth, harsh enough to set every nerve ending touched on edge, but just gentle enough not to break the skin. Buffy curled up on her side in front of Spike, fondling his balls with one hand as she slipped his cock in and out of the heat of her mouth, taking him in a little further each time. Spike kicked out, tossing the one corner of a blanket that had still been covering his legs to the floor. Buffy stopped and looked up. "Warm enough now?" she asked. "Ye—" Spike stopped himself. Keep pushing the advantage, lad. You earned it with troll venom. "Could be a bit warmer. Specially that bit of me you've got a hold of. Can think of someplace cozy that could turn the thermostat up a few degrees." Buffy raised her head, and he saw her roll her eyes in Angel's direction. But in spite of her comical glance, in a second he found himself on his back, with her astride him, one small hand reaching down to guide his cock into the heavenly warmth of her. "Is that better?" she asked, bending over him, her lips skimming his. "Much," he said, and then gasped as she seized him and rolled them both over, so that he was on top and she was lying back against the mattress, legs spread wide, open so that he could bury himself deep inside her. "This should make it even better," she said. "Heat rises, you know." "Yeah," he said, starting to draw himself up to thrust. "Now, now," she said, still in that teasing tone. "Don't overexert yourself. You're still a convalescent." "Feeling much better now," he assured her, gasping as she pulled him closer, all her extraordinary muscles—in arms, legs, and even more amazing places—forcing him to stillness. Then he felt Angel moving behind him, and he stopped protesting as broad hands and soft lips caressed him, slick fingers gently probing at first, and then— Momentary pain was followed by overwhelming pleasure, as Angel thrust deep within him. The weight of Angel’s body settled over him, taut abdominal muscles flexing against Spike's arse, protective and reassuring instead of crushing. Buffy began to move again, her hips rocking to cradle Spike, and he sank even deeper into her embrace. Angel followed Buffy’s lead, thrusting in time to her movements. Spike’s head dropped heavily onto Buffy’s shoulder, and he sensed rather than saw her eyes meet Angel’s. He knew they were making love to each other as well as to him, using his body as an intermediary, moving in unison, gazes locked, Angel arching his body so their lips could meet briefly. They left Spike nothing to do but be the passive instrument of their passion, to let the extraordinary sensations overwhelm him, making no effort to move his own limbs. A tiny voice in his mind argued that he shouldn’t let them take him, use him like this, that he should assert himself somehow— Bugger that. Sometimes you need to relax and enjoy the ride. He remembered his dream from the previous night and his reality of a year before, when he’d been condemned to touch nothing, feel nothing, belong nowhere. Now every nerve was alert, every atom of his very corporeal self awash with pleasure. He was wholly captive, surrounded and invaded, possessed utterly. Warm lips moved against his cheek; cooler ones brushed the nape of his neck. “I love you, Spike.” What little self-control he retained spun away from him at Buffy’s words. “Love you,” muttered Angel’s voice in his ear. Sod it all, if there was ever a moment that called for— “Love you, Buffy,” he gasped before he could reconsider. “Love you—love you both.” He could always deny saying it later, after all.
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) And more of Spike's deathless prose, if you think you can survive that:
|
|
Please send feedback to: missmurchison@mchsi.com
|