For Kudagirl: A Chance Meeting
This is for kudagirl who asked:
Could I have hello_spikey do a story with Spike and Angel being naughty and Buffy finding them together?
Sometimes, a request just sparks! So here it is!
Spike/Angel, BtVS season 6, post spuffy-luvins, pre-spuffy-unluvins, and I didn't really put any thought into what Angel's series is doing at the time.
Spike and Angel run into each other at the porn store. The inevitable follows. Warnings for bad language and explicit sexings! yay!
A Chance Meeting
The nearest porn store to Sunnydale was annoyingly far, out on the freeway, zoned away by prudish suburban voters. But Spike had a slayer to keep interested, one with post-resurrection depression and a thousand other things drawing her away from him, and after last night’s listless farewell, reinforcements were necessary.
The trick was to get something novel, but nothing that would make a bloke feel… inadequate. He picked up a nobly purple thing and tested the consistency of the silicone rabbit ears at the base, conveniently sticking out of a hole in the package for just such perusal by discriminating pervs. There was a warning or something on the side in tiny print. Spike squinted and held the package away from himself, trying to read. One of these days he’d give in and bring his reading glasses out in public. Did that say risk of electrocution?
Spike took an unwitting step backward and bumped into someone, sending video boxes clattering. “Sorry,” he muttered without turning around. You didn’t look at other blokes in the porn shop.
“No problem,” said an alarmingly familiar voice, and an alarmingly familiar wide arse poked into view as an alarmingly familiar body bent to pick up “Naughty Choirboys Confess” Volumes 7 through 9. Also, Spike had to admit, alarmingly familiar.
Spike had just enough time to register alarm and start looking for a convenient hiding space or exit when Angel was back upright, gaping at him in alarm, and again dropping his three DVDs. “Spike! What are you doing here?”
Spike tucked the “Jackrabbit LiquidAction Pro” behind his back and rolled his eyes. “Getting my tires rotated. What do you think? We’re in a sex shop, Peaches.”
Angel scowled like he’d been perusing the porn shop’s vast collection of Sartre books instead of priest kink, and then swiped at Spike’s arm, trying to get what he was holding behind his back. Spike side-stepped, tripped on a slippery little box with a very familiar surplice on the cover, and before he knew it, he was wrestling with Angel to get the jackrabbit vibrator back, and, realizing how THAT looked, let go, falling into the case of dildos at his back.
Angel smirked triumphantly, waving the purple silicone monstrosity. “Trying to get in touch with your G-spot, William?”
“Piss off! It’s for…” Spike gulped, a wheel turned in his head wherein he imagined how Angel would react to him saying it was for Buffy, and then, despite how amusing that would be, how Buffy would react when she found out he told Angel, which, no matter how Spike imagined it, seemed inevitably to end in no more nookie for our hero. He swallowed hard and said, “Uh, yeah, that’s for me. Uh… you know, vampire here - into all sorts of kinky shit.” He shrugged, warming to the lie, “But I think, actually, I’m going to go with the rubber fist - a man’s got needs.” He flicked his eyes over to the object in question, a truly enormous piece of rubber in a disturbingly fake flesh-tone.
Angel blinked, obviously confused by Spike’s easy capitulation.
Spike slipped a bullet vibrator into his duster pocket - no sense making a waste of the trip - and jumped to his feet. He slapped Angel on the arm with a cheery, “See you, Peaches,” and hurried to the front of the store as fast as he could without looking like he was making a break for it.
He was just tasting the sweet diesel exhaust of freedom when Angel grabbed the leather around his elbow, stopping him in the doorway. “What ARE you doing here?”
Spike jerked his arm out of Angel’s grip and backed out into the parking lot, hands in his pockets less his latest shoplifting fall out. “How about I ask that question, seeing as how this porn shop is a hell of a lot closer to Sunnydale than Hell-A. Trying to hide your perversions from the cheerleader, are we?”
The caught-out look on Angel’s face confirmed that Spike had landed a verbal hit and he rocked joyfully on the balls of his feet. “Aw, couldn’t find the latest video in the series closer to home, is that it? I remember how you loved part six. Oh, right, I’m sorry - that was Angelus, and you’re a completely different person.”
Angel didn’t respond with the expected anger. He was leaning back, studying Spike through half-lidded eyes. “You were thinking about… I mean, you always acted like, um, and you weren’t...”
Spike blinked, trying to make sense of the variety of half-sentences Angel was sending at him. “Has the hair gel finally gotten to your brain?”
Angel huffed and gave Spike a challenging glare. “You were thinking about the things we used to do, and you went to a porn shop to get… necessary equipment.”
Spike’s jaw dropped a little, and he considered that he had painted himself a nice corner there, between the masturbatory aids and choir boy jokes. That had been, well, an interesting evening, back in Sunnydale, back in the chair, with the newly arrived DVD and Angel popping off to find a good choir boy but failing to and bringing back vestments from the local catholic church.
Spike cleared his throat. “Angel - you’re a goody two-shoes brooding detective and I’m evil. Don’t tell me you’re asking me if we have anything still.” Spike gestured derisively between them and squared up to Angel. “All ‘we’ are these days are bitter, mortal enemies.”
And that’s when Angel grabbed his head in both hands and kissed him.
Spike hadn’t expected that, or he would have struggled a lot sooner. Or, really, at all. Okay, so he’d been having a lot of practice lately with the sudden sexual mauling at the tail end of an argument and maybe his brain hadn’t quite caught up that this was ANGEL gripping him possessively and violently exploring every corner of his mouth.
They were broken apart by a large, bearded man shouting, “Hey! Do that on your own time, not in front of my god-damn store!”
For a moment, Spike and Angel stood a bit apart, not looking at each other. Spike cleared his throat, said, “Later, Peaches,” and jumped into his car.
Spike wondered, as he got on the express way, if he had been sprinkled with some alien sex pollen or something to explain why hero-types were suddenly so hot for him. If so, he hoped it didn’t wear off. He fished the vibrator out of his pocket to see what he’d gotten at random and mused that it was probably best that Buffy wouldn’t know the source of her good fortune when he thoroughly ravaged her.
He pulled into his usual parking spot along the western fence for Restfield Cemetery and a big black Plymouth pulled in beside him.
“Sex pollen,” Spike said, “Definitely.”
Angel got out of the Plymouth and stood there looking awkward, but not so awkward he wanted to leave. After a moment of deliberation, Spike took pity on him and got out of his car, too.
“What, they don’t have whores in L.A.?”
Angel scowled, then quickly tried to hide that with a pleading expression. “I’m not saying I want to talk to you or be friends with you or forget that we hate each other…”
“You just want to shag my brains out.” Spike touched his tongue to his teeth and grinned impishly.
Angel grabbed him by his arms and growled, “Shut up, Spike,” before repeating the bruising kiss performance he’d given in front of the porn shop.
They stumbled together, through the cemetery gate and against tombstones and trees, shedding bits of clothing as they went, tugging and pulling to get at the skin underneath. Biting and kissing and licking, they tumbled through the grass. Angel was hard and strong and demanding and large - it had been some time since Spike had been with someone larger than himself and it stirred feelings he’d rather not investigate fully. He didn’t LIKE feeling vulnerable and small and delicate. He was hard and violent and powerful, himself.
So he sank his fangs into Angel’s muscular shoulder to prove it, and Angel craned his neck and gasped, a deep soul-expelling gasp of pure lust, and rutted harder into him before latching on to Spike’s neck and returning the favor.
Angel’s trousers were still on, binding his thick, muscular thighs together, which was fine by Spike as he pushed fabric down and out of the way so he could grip the heavy column of Angel’s cock. It was amazing - even without body heat, it still felt warmer than the rest of him, and without a pulse it still seemed to leap against his palm, eager and satiny smooth. Fuck, it was huge - and the frission of fear, realizing that this monster was gunning for his delicate parts, well, that was delicious spice on top of the sugary lust that was suffusing his senses.
Angel managed to push his slacks down enough to get one leg out and triumphantly rose to his knees, straddling Spike’s lap. “Been missing me, boy? Missing this?” He flexed his hips, fucking into Spike’s grip.
“Just fuck me already, you big perv,” Spike said, pressing up against him.
Spike’s jeans posed a problem, being tight - damn his vanity - but he scrambled backward while Angel fought against them and they ended up against the grainy stone of the crypt, both bare from the waist down. Spike helpfully wrapped his legs around Angel’s hips, lifting himself against the wall. The soft silk of Angel’s shirt felt lovely pressed against Spike’s cock, shifting with his motions as Angel hooked his arms under Spike’s legs. Bare flesh against bare flesh felt so good, fleeting touches and the firm grind of groin against groin as Angel’s shirt swayed like a flag against their legs and Spike’s t-shirt hitched up, caught like Velcro against the rough stone behind him while his body lifted and ground down.
Angel’s broad, blunt fingers, just a little calloused and rough, explored Spike’s crack, finding his puckered entrance and gently broaching it. Angel’s brow was all crinkled in concentration. “Fuck,” he said.
“That’s the idea, genious.”
The pad of Angel’s finger dragged against dry skin. “No slick.”
“Never stopped you before.”
Angel rolled his eyes and licked his fingers, returning them, slightly wet, to tease and explore.
Tickling, light, and oh so very less than the full-on fucking Spike wanted. He writhed and bucked but Angel wouldn’t go any faster. “Look, since you’ve grown a vagina and all, we are right outside my place. Four steps, sunshine, and we can grab some lamp oil.”
Neither was particularly interested in separating, so they dragged together along the wall, completely demolishing Spike’s shirt, which fell off completely when they swung through the metal door to the crypt and landed together against the smoother interior wall. “Over there,” Spike tilted his head, already reaching one arm for the oil lamp set in a niche overhead.
His fingers fumbled, finding the convex glass with just the tips while Angel did wicked things to the side of his neck with his tongue. Spike strained - conveniently pressing his cock into the delicious contours of Angel’s bent and muscled torso - and started walking his fingers along the bottom of the oil lamp, easing it from its shelf.
Angel’s cock shifted, sliding next to his fingers, teasing, probing, promising. Spike shifted his hips and strained just a little more for the oil.
The lamp hit Angel in the head, spilling down between them, turning Angel’s burgundy silk shirt transparent. Angel pulled back, blinking in confusion, then looked down at himself and growled.
Spike laughed as he hit the floor, an annoyed but still very horny (and now covered in oil) Angel on top of him.
“That was my favorite shirt.”
“Going to take it out of me?” They wrestled for dominance, rolling across the floor, ruining Angel’s shirt, which had to come off at last, slapping wetly against the wall as Angel threw it - and completely coating each other in lamp oil.
Spike ended up on top and slid his chest up and down against Angel’s, the oil-coated skin felt so good, slipping and rubbing. Spike laughed. “Better hope we don’t start a fire.”
Angel flipped them over and unceremoniously slammed into Spike, his dick liberally oiled and the teasing, gentle preparation from earlier just enough to take the edge off the pain and make it a prickly sharp pleasure that raced through his body, tightening every muscle into a trembling balance between wanting to push away and push closer.
And then they were both moving, tension became passion, melting into each other’s familiar rhythm. Spike looked up at Angel and saw his expression open, searching. He licked his lips and took in a breath. Angel’s parted lips hovered over his, breathing in his expelled breaths. “Ang…”
A strangled, high-pitched sound interrupted his thought, and was followed by the crush of a paper bag hitting the floor. Angel and Spike turned in unison to see Buffy standing just inside the crypt door in her Doublemeat Palace uniform, the dinner she was taking home with her now by her feet, the tangy scent of ketchup and secret sauce now detectable over the musk and oil surrounding them.
Spike’s chest pressed against Angel’s as he took a deep breath. “Uh… hi, lo… slayer. This isn’t exactly what it looks like.”
Angel tried to hide by tucking his head down against Spike.
The silence dragged. Buffy stared, her mouth opening and closing like a fish nibbling at the water. Finally, she coughed, picked up her sack of burgers, and said, “I’m going to take this home, and when I get back… we’ll talk. Or possibly not. Not ever.”
Spike watched her look them up and down, as though, perhaps, memorizing the scene for later use, and then quietly turn and go.
Angel still had his face pressed to Spike’s clavicle, and he was shaking just a little.
“Angel?” He began to worry that the old man had cracked. He lifted his knee, trying to get the heavy old sod to move - Spike was getting cold and considerably less turned on.
“She’s going to kill me,” Angel said, sounding about eight years old.
“No she’s not.” Spike rubbed his thigh against Angel’s hip and patted his broad shoulder.
“I’m going to die of embarrassment. Right now.”
“Well, if you’re doomed anyway, how about not dying unfulfilled?” Spike lifted his hips in emphasis. The slick motion awakened his cock, which had deflated a bit, and he felt Angel still inside him, still hard, big and filling and lovely. Spike flexed gently, fucking himself on Angel’s still form, until Angel responded, matching small motions that became bolder. He looked up at last, his face tear-streaked.
“I’m going to hell,” Angel said.
“Yeah, but what a way to go.” Spike wrapped his legs around Angel’s hips and thrust back with all his might.
“Fuck!” Angel’s teeth snapped at Spike’s ear lobe. “I’ll kill you,” he said, low and threatening. Spike just laughed.
***
Crouching in the prickly weeds outside the low window of the crypt, Buffy stared at the tanned, flexing ass of her ex-boyfriend, framed by the pale, sculpted legs of her current, well, boyfriend-equivalent. Their bodies were both gleaming, oil catching the candle light gorgeously. And they were kissing. She could see their jaws working, their cheeks rippling with hints of tongues and teeth clashing and twining.
And… she really should get going home. You know, soon.
Angel raised up, the tattoo on his back flexing over muscle as he thrust hard, sweat beading over oil and he cried out, stiffening, stilling, and then falling, gasping, while Spike wrapped around him, murmuring something sweet or filthy - or filthily sweet, he had a way of doing that - in Angel’s ear.
Buffy shakily got to her feet; her knees didn’t want to work. She licked her bitten bottom lip and wished she’d had a camera. Or a videocamera. She picked up the much-battered bag of Doublemeat burgers and backed away from the gentle firelight of the tiny window.
One thing was for certain: she didn’t feel guilty about sleeping with Spike anymore. Nice solid dip in the guilt-index. A smile crept onto her face and she ran the rest of the way home.
Because she was SO coming back.
Could I have hello_spikey do a story with Spike and Angel being naughty and Buffy finding them together?
Sometimes, a request just sparks! So here it is!
Spike/Angel, BtVS season 6, post spuffy-luvins, pre-spuffy-unluvins, and I didn't really put any thought into what Angel's series is doing at the time.
Spike and Angel run into each other at the porn store. The inevitable follows. Warnings for bad language and explicit sexings! yay!
A Chance Meeting
The nearest porn store to Sunnydale was annoyingly far, out on the freeway, zoned away by prudish suburban voters. But Spike had a slayer to keep interested, one with post-resurrection depression and a thousand other things drawing her away from him, and after last night’s listless farewell, reinforcements were necessary.
The trick was to get something novel, but nothing that would make a bloke feel… inadequate. He picked up a nobly purple thing and tested the consistency of the silicone rabbit ears at the base, conveniently sticking out of a hole in the package for just such perusal by discriminating pervs. There was a warning or something on the side in tiny print. Spike squinted and held the package away from himself, trying to read. One of these days he’d give in and bring his reading glasses out in public. Did that say risk of electrocution?
Spike took an unwitting step backward and bumped into someone, sending video boxes clattering. “Sorry,” he muttered without turning around. You didn’t look at other blokes in the porn shop.
“No problem,” said an alarmingly familiar voice, and an alarmingly familiar wide arse poked into view as an alarmingly familiar body bent to pick up “Naughty Choirboys Confess” Volumes 7 through 9. Also, Spike had to admit, alarmingly familiar.
Spike had just enough time to register alarm and start looking for a convenient hiding space or exit when Angel was back upright, gaping at him in alarm, and again dropping his three DVDs. “Spike! What are you doing here?”
Spike tucked the “Jackrabbit LiquidAction Pro” behind his back and rolled his eyes. “Getting my tires rotated. What do you think? We’re in a sex shop, Peaches.”
Angel scowled like he’d been perusing the porn shop’s vast collection of Sartre books instead of priest kink, and then swiped at Spike’s arm, trying to get what he was holding behind his back. Spike side-stepped, tripped on a slippery little box with a very familiar surplice on the cover, and before he knew it, he was wrestling with Angel to get the jackrabbit vibrator back, and, realizing how THAT looked, let go, falling into the case of dildos at his back.
Angel smirked triumphantly, waving the purple silicone monstrosity. “Trying to get in touch with your G-spot, William?”
“Piss off! It’s for…” Spike gulped, a wheel turned in his head wherein he imagined how Angel would react to him saying it was for Buffy, and then, despite how amusing that would be, how Buffy would react when she found out he told Angel, which, no matter how Spike imagined it, seemed inevitably to end in no more nookie for our hero. He swallowed hard and said, “Uh, yeah, that’s for me. Uh… you know, vampire here - into all sorts of kinky shit.” He shrugged, warming to the lie, “But I think, actually, I’m going to go with the rubber fist - a man’s got needs.” He flicked his eyes over to the object in question, a truly enormous piece of rubber in a disturbingly fake flesh-tone.
Angel blinked, obviously confused by Spike’s easy capitulation.
Spike slipped a bullet vibrator into his duster pocket - no sense making a waste of the trip - and jumped to his feet. He slapped Angel on the arm with a cheery, “See you, Peaches,” and hurried to the front of the store as fast as he could without looking like he was making a break for it.
He was just tasting the sweet diesel exhaust of freedom when Angel grabbed the leather around his elbow, stopping him in the doorway. “What ARE you doing here?”
Spike jerked his arm out of Angel’s grip and backed out into the parking lot, hands in his pockets less his latest shoplifting fall out. “How about I ask that question, seeing as how this porn shop is a hell of a lot closer to Sunnydale than Hell-A. Trying to hide your perversions from the cheerleader, are we?”
The caught-out look on Angel’s face confirmed that Spike had landed a verbal hit and he rocked joyfully on the balls of his feet. “Aw, couldn’t find the latest video in the series closer to home, is that it? I remember how you loved part six. Oh, right, I’m sorry - that was Angelus, and you’re a completely different person.”
Angel didn’t respond with the expected anger. He was leaning back, studying Spike through half-lidded eyes. “You were thinking about… I mean, you always acted like, um, and you weren’t...”
Spike blinked, trying to make sense of the variety of half-sentences Angel was sending at him. “Has the hair gel finally gotten to your brain?”
Angel huffed and gave Spike a challenging glare. “You were thinking about the things we used to do, and you went to a porn shop to get… necessary equipment.”
Spike’s jaw dropped a little, and he considered that he had painted himself a nice corner there, between the masturbatory aids and choir boy jokes. That had been, well, an interesting evening, back in Sunnydale, back in the chair, with the newly arrived DVD and Angel popping off to find a good choir boy but failing to and bringing back vestments from the local catholic church.
Spike cleared his throat. “Angel - you’re a goody two-shoes brooding detective and I’m evil. Don’t tell me you’re asking me if we have anything still.” Spike gestured derisively between them and squared up to Angel. “All ‘we’ are these days are bitter, mortal enemies.”
And that’s when Angel grabbed his head in both hands and kissed him.
Spike hadn’t expected that, or he would have struggled a lot sooner. Or, really, at all. Okay, so he’d been having a lot of practice lately with the sudden sexual mauling at the tail end of an argument and maybe his brain hadn’t quite caught up that this was ANGEL gripping him possessively and violently exploring every corner of his mouth.
They were broken apart by a large, bearded man shouting, “Hey! Do that on your own time, not in front of my god-damn store!”
For a moment, Spike and Angel stood a bit apart, not looking at each other. Spike cleared his throat, said, “Later, Peaches,” and jumped into his car.
Spike wondered, as he got on the express way, if he had been sprinkled with some alien sex pollen or something to explain why hero-types were suddenly so hot for him. If so, he hoped it didn’t wear off. He fished the vibrator out of his pocket to see what he’d gotten at random and mused that it was probably best that Buffy wouldn’t know the source of her good fortune when he thoroughly ravaged her.
He pulled into his usual parking spot along the western fence for Restfield Cemetery and a big black Plymouth pulled in beside him.
“Sex pollen,” Spike said, “Definitely.”
Angel got out of the Plymouth and stood there looking awkward, but not so awkward he wanted to leave. After a moment of deliberation, Spike took pity on him and got out of his car, too.
“What, they don’t have whores in L.A.?”
Angel scowled, then quickly tried to hide that with a pleading expression. “I’m not saying I want to talk to you or be friends with you or forget that we hate each other…”
“You just want to shag my brains out.” Spike touched his tongue to his teeth and grinned impishly.
Angel grabbed him by his arms and growled, “Shut up, Spike,” before repeating the bruising kiss performance he’d given in front of the porn shop.
They stumbled together, through the cemetery gate and against tombstones and trees, shedding bits of clothing as they went, tugging and pulling to get at the skin underneath. Biting and kissing and licking, they tumbled through the grass. Angel was hard and strong and demanding and large - it had been some time since Spike had been with someone larger than himself and it stirred feelings he’d rather not investigate fully. He didn’t LIKE feeling vulnerable and small and delicate. He was hard and violent and powerful, himself.
So he sank his fangs into Angel’s muscular shoulder to prove it, and Angel craned his neck and gasped, a deep soul-expelling gasp of pure lust, and rutted harder into him before latching on to Spike’s neck and returning the favor.
Angel’s trousers were still on, binding his thick, muscular thighs together, which was fine by Spike as he pushed fabric down and out of the way so he could grip the heavy column of Angel’s cock. It was amazing - even without body heat, it still felt warmer than the rest of him, and without a pulse it still seemed to leap against his palm, eager and satiny smooth. Fuck, it was huge - and the frission of fear, realizing that this monster was gunning for his delicate parts, well, that was delicious spice on top of the sugary lust that was suffusing his senses.
Angel managed to push his slacks down enough to get one leg out and triumphantly rose to his knees, straddling Spike’s lap. “Been missing me, boy? Missing this?” He flexed his hips, fucking into Spike’s grip.
“Just fuck me already, you big perv,” Spike said, pressing up against him.
Spike’s jeans posed a problem, being tight - damn his vanity - but he scrambled backward while Angel fought against them and they ended up against the grainy stone of the crypt, both bare from the waist down. Spike helpfully wrapped his legs around Angel’s hips, lifting himself against the wall. The soft silk of Angel’s shirt felt lovely pressed against Spike’s cock, shifting with his motions as Angel hooked his arms under Spike’s legs. Bare flesh against bare flesh felt so good, fleeting touches and the firm grind of groin against groin as Angel’s shirt swayed like a flag against their legs and Spike’s t-shirt hitched up, caught like Velcro against the rough stone behind him while his body lifted and ground down.
Angel’s broad, blunt fingers, just a little calloused and rough, explored Spike’s crack, finding his puckered entrance and gently broaching it. Angel’s brow was all crinkled in concentration. “Fuck,” he said.
“That’s the idea, genious.”
The pad of Angel’s finger dragged against dry skin. “No slick.”
“Never stopped you before.”
Angel rolled his eyes and licked his fingers, returning them, slightly wet, to tease and explore.
Tickling, light, and oh so very less than the full-on fucking Spike wanted. He writhed and bucked but Angel wouldn’t go any faster. “Look, since you’ve grown a vagina and all, we are right outside my place. Four steps, sunshine, and we can grab some lamp oil.”
Neither was particularly interested in separating, so they dragged together along the wall, completely demolishing Spike’s shirt, which fell off completely when they swung through the metal door to the crypt and landed together against the smoother interior wall. “Over there,” Spike tilted his head, already reaching one arm for the oil lamp set in a niche overhead.
His fingers fumbled, finding the convex glass with just the tips while Angel did wicked things to the side of his neck with his tongue. Spike strained - conveniently pressing his cock into the delicious contours of Angel’s bent and muscled torso - and started walking his fingers along the bottom of the oil lamp, easing it from its shelf.
Angel’s cock shifted, sliding next to his fingers, teasing, probing, promising. Spike shifted his hips and strained just a little more for the oil.
The lamp hit Angel in the head, spilling down between them, turning Angel’s burgundy silk shirt transparent. Angel pulled back, blinking in confusion, then looked down at himself and growled.
Spike laughed as he hit the floor, an annoyed but still very horny (and now covered in oil) Angel on top of him.
“That was my favorite shirt.”
“Going to take it out of me?” They wrestled for dominance, rolling across the floor, ruining Angel’s shirt, which had to come off at last, slapping wetly against the wall as Angel threw it - and completely coating each other in lamp oil.
Spike ended up on top and slid his chest up and down against Angel’s, the oil-coated skin felt so good, slipping and rubbing. Spike laughed. “Better hope we don’t start a fire.”
Angel flipped them over and unceremoniously slammed into Spike, his dick liberally oiled and the teasing, gentle preparation from earlier just enough to take the edge off the pain and make it a prickly sharp pleasure that raced through his body, tightening every muscle into a trembling balance between wanting to push away and push closer.
And then they were both moving, tension became passion, melting into each other’s familiar rhythm. Spike looked up at Angel and saw his expression open, searching. He licked his lips and took in a breath. Angel’s parted lips hovered over his, breathing in his expelled breaths. “Ang…”
A strangled, high-pitched sound interrupted his thought, and was followed by the crush of a paper bag hitting the floor. Angel and Spike turned in unison to see Buffy standing just inside the crypt door in her Doublemeat Palace uniform, the dinner she was taking home with her now by her feet, the tangy scent of ketchup and secret sauce now detectable over the musk and oil surrounding them.
Spike’s chest pressed against Angel’s as he took a deep breath. “Uh… hi, lo… slayer. This isn’t exactly what it looks like.”
Angel tried to hide by tucking his head down against Spike.
The silence dragged. Buffy stared, her mouth opening and closing like a fish nibbling at the water. Finally, she coughed, picked up her sack of burgers, and said, “I’m going to take this home, and when I get back… we’ll talk. Or possibly not. Not ever.”
Spike watched her look them up and down, as though, perhaps, memorizing the scene for later use, and then quietly turn and go.
Angel still had his face pressed to Spike’s clavicle, and he was shaking just a little.
“Angel?” He began to worry that the old man had cracked. He lifted his knee, trying to get the heavy old sod to move - Spike was getting cold and considerably less turned on.
“She’s going to kill me,” Angel said, sounding about eight years old.
“No she’s not.” Spike rubbed his thigh against Angel’s hip and patted his broad shoulder.
“I’m going to die of embarrassment. Right now.”
“Well, if you’re doomed anyway, how about not dying unfulfilled?” Spike lifted his hips in emphasis. The slick motion awakened his cock, which had deflated a bit, and he felt Angel still inside him, still hard, big and filling and lovely. Spike flexed gently, fucking himself on Angel’s still form, until Angel responded, matching small motions that became bolder. He looked up at last, his face tear-streaked.
“I’m going to hell,” Angel said.
“Yeah, but what a way to go.” Spike wrapped his legs around Angel’s hips and thrust back with all his might.
“Fuck!” Angel’s teeth snapped at Spike’s ear lobe. “I’ll kill you,” he said, low and threatening. Spike just laughed.
***
Crouching in the prickly weeds outside the low window of the crypt, Buffy stared at the tanned, flexing ass of her ex-boyfriend, framed by the pale, sculpted legs of her current, well, boyfriend-equivalent. Their bodies were both gleaming, oil catching the candle light gorgeously. And they were kissing. She could see their jaws working, their cheeks rippling with hints of tongues and teeth clashing and twining.
And… she really should get going home. You know, soon.
Angel raised up, the tattoo on his back flexing over muscle as he thrust hard, sweat beading over oil and he cried out, stiffening, stilling, and then falling, gasping, while Spike wrapped around him, murmuring something sweet or filthy - or filthily sweet, he had a way of doing that - in Angel’s ear.
Buffy shakily got to her feet; her knees didn’t want to work. She licked her bitten bottom lip and wished she’d had a camera. Or a videocamera. She picked up the much-battered bag of Doublemeat burgers and backed away from the gentle firelight of the tiny window.
One thing was for certain: she didn’t feel guilty about sleeping with Spike anymore. Nice solid dip in the guilt-index. A smile crept onto her face and she ran the rest of the way home.
Because she was SO coming back.