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stakebaitThis is why I suck at Plot What Plot. Even in my own, never-to-be-disclosed-to-another-living-soul-unless-I'm-fucking-them-and-maybe-not-then fantasies, I can't just skip to the good part. I have to keep going back and back, figuring out what the hell I'm doing there and why I'm wearing that and who this guy is anyway and why is he eating a sandwich? Once you introduce actual characters? Forget about it.
So. Here is the first part of the threesome smut. Angel/Spike/Buffy, for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ocean_song and kita0610. Unbetaed and unfinished.
Careful observers will notice the lack of a) threesome and b) smut. It's coming. Hopefully in the next part, but who knows?
“I can’t do that to you, William.”
“I’m using you, and it’s killing me. William.”
Spike shook off the memory like a wet dog.
“My name is Spike,” he grated. “Not William. Not any more.”
“Are you still on that?” Angel was back from whatever emergency thousand-year-old-prophecy had demanded his attention, and lurking in his office doorway. He gestured at Spike, and turned to Buffy. “A hundred years and he’s still on that.”
Spike sighed as he sank down on the big brown couch. Bloody thing swallowed him every time. He was half-convinced it was a demon just waiting for the right moment to chomp and finish him off.
He stretched out his legs and lit a cigarette just to watch Angel’s teeth grind. “Yeah, and a hundred years from now you’d still be yammering and making cow eyes at each other if I left this to you. Angel, you can’t shag Buffy because blah blah gypsies. But you know damned well you can screw the arse off me. Buffy, tall dark and dorky here will love you to the end of the world, but while he’s waiting he’s been known to get his rocks off with yours truly on occasion and –”
He’d lost her. “Buffy? Slayer? Over here, pet. Still talking.”
Buffy jump and then blushed. “Sorry. I was having a visual.”
Spike leered out of habit and general principle. “Not yet, love. Point being, you’ve been known to do the same, as quite a bit of off-price real estate can testify. Not that I haven’t been enjoying the two weeks of non-stop pissing contest and Greek tragedy, but it gets old.”
“I told you. I can’t use you like that.”
Angel looked faintly interested. “I can. Like what?”
“Like a… a … toy. Like a…”
“Robot?” Spike suggested.
Buffy glared at him. Spike grinned. It was almost like old times.
And then it wasn’t, because Buffy was looking at Angel and Angel was looking at Buffy and he could fucking feel the world slow down to treacle and the sodding violins begin to play. Nothing was real but the two of them, not the ringing of phones or the murmuring of shit-scared lawyers into them or the blond vampire who was wishing, suddenly, that the couch would get on with chewing him up and spitting him out. Six months as solid as the bloody Albert Memorial and he could still feel himself fading away…
“Like a handmaid,” said Spike abruptly.
“What?” Angel was looking at him with that trademark expression of someone who thinks the conversation might have passed him somewhere back around the ‘70s.
Angel was looking at him. Spike breathed again, just because he could.
“I know you keep making cracks about my weight, but I don’t actually wear a corset,”Angel pointed out. “Can dress myself just fine. Wish I could say the same for…” a flickering glance at Spike’s outfit completed the sentence.
Spike rolled his eyes and resisted the temptation to defend a truly classic look. “Like that book by the Canadian bint?”
Two identical blank stares greeted him.
“Like the Bible?”
“The Bible is Canadian?” That was Buffy, so it was probably a joke. Spike was going to believe that anyway.
“Handmaid’s Tale. Ruth and… whatsherface. The maid stands in for her mistress, the master fucks her, everything’s peachy until the maid gets knocked up and goes mental. But seeing as Angel’s not likely to put a bun in my oven…”
Now why the hell would that bring a flash of pain to Angel’s eyes? He couldn’t possibly be wishing for a bushel of little great grand gits to dandle on his knee – or turn over it. Probably just feeling guilty about some baby he’d snacked on in the Edwardian era. Spike couldn’t worry about it now, not when he was this close to putting an actual new idea into the thickest skull God ever made.
“You fuck me. I fuck her. Everybody’s happy. Simple enough for you?”
Angel had that flat angry drawl that meant he was ten seconds from putting someone through the plate glass yet again. Spike had heard rumors he’d tripled the interior decorating budget. “YOU’d be happy, boyo. What’s in this for me?”
Spike thought wistfully of moving to Antarctica. Six months of night and no great hulking wassocks who couldn’t recognize a self-sacrifice if it burned to death in their laps.
“At once, you defective. You thrust, she screams. Close as you can get with that cut-rate gypsy soul of yours. That clear it up?”
Angel’s face was blank. Spike didn’t know what to make of that, so he looked back at Buffy. “You get your pretty picture.”
Buffy shook her head, no. Spike’s jaw tightened. “Suit yourself, then. Close your eyes and think of Ireland.”
Buffy punched him in the face. When did she get so close?
“Not that. It’s wrong.”
Spike licked the blood from his cut lip and heard her pulse speed up. “Wrong’s what we do best, love.”
Buffy licked her own lips in unconscious imitation. “Not anymore. Things are different now. You deserve better.”
Spike and Angel exchanged a look of sympathy – their first since Buffy had showed up. They both knew, if no one else did, what he deserved.
But there was no point in telling that to Buffy. She believed in him, and what she believed in stayed believed. Not that he really wanted to.
“You gonna give me what I deserve, Slayer?” Spike asked instead. His tone was as gentle as he could make it, considering. Was she ever gonna get that love isn’t some kind of bloody Scouting badge?
“I – I can’t. It’s not fair to Angel.” She was carefully not looking at either of them now.
“You gonna give Angel what he deserves, then?” Which was a boot in the arse, as far as Spike was concerned, but he didn’t get a vote.
Spike tensed, waiting for the answer. “I can’t.”
“Because of the curse. Angel, why the hell don’t you take the company jet down to Africa and get one without strings?”
Angel was standing in a sunbeam, looking out the window. “You don’t just get any soul. You get yours.”
Right. And if he lost it first, he wouldn’t fight to get it back. Spike sighed. Not that he wanted Buffy and Angel to ride off into the necrotempered sunset and forget all about him, but at least it’d be over.
“Because it’s not fair to you.”
Spike’s head whipped about to look Buffy in the eye.
“Oh,” was all he could find to say.
The ring of the phone was loud, but no one moved to answer it.
When it was over, Spike spoke. “And Angel won’t give me—” what I need — “the time of day while you’re here, because we can’t go two seconds without trying to tear each other’s throat out.”
“Not like we went so long before,” Angel pointed out.
Spike waved a dismissive hand. “That was foreplay.”
“For four MONTHS?”
Spike stood up so he could get some proper emphatic gesturing in. “I was incorporeal!”
“Not for the last one!”
“I was busy!”
“Sleeping with Harmony?”
“Once! Not like you were welcoming me with open arms!”
A hand waved in front of his face. No, between their faces, not that there was much room.
“Hello?”
They turned to Buffy. Spike hoped his sheepish expression didn’t look as stupid as Angel’s.
“Sorry,” they mumbled together, then shot each other dagger looks.
“What do you get out of it?” Buffy had her hands on her hips, which meant she really wanted an answer.
Spike wondered. Laid? The chance to give the woman he loved what she actually wanted? The chance to pretend that, if Angel could get a little happy without losing the soul, maybe he already had? The chance to out martyr the great brooder himself?
Nah, he wasn’t that stupid yet. Talk about cutting off your dick to spite your face.
“I get to be done with this conversation,” Spike said finally.
Angel caught Spike casually by the back of the neck. “I’m in,” he said.
*****
Mer
So. Here is the first part of the threesome smut. Angel/Spike/Buffy, for
ocean_song and kita0610. Unbetaed and unfinished.Careful observers will notice the lack of a) threesome and b) smut. It's coming. Hopefully in the next part, but who knows?
“I can’t do that to you, William.”
“I’m using you, and it’s killing me. William.”
Spike shook off the memory like a wet dog.
“My name is Spike,” he grated. “Not William. Not any more.”
“Are you still on that?” Angel was back from whatever emergency thousand-year-old-prophecy had demanded his attention, and lurking in his office doorway. He gestured at Spike, and turned to Buffy. “A hundred years and he’s still on that.”
Spike sighed as he sank down on the big brown couch. Bloody thing swallowed him every time. He was half-convinced it was a demon just waiting for the right moment to chomp and finish him off.
He stretched out his legs and lit a cigarette just to watch Angel’s teeth grind. “Yeah, and a hundred years from now you’d still be yammering and making cow eyes at each other if I left this to you. Angel, you can’t shag Buffy because blah blah gypsies. But you know damned well you can screw the arse off me. Buffy, tall dark and dorky here will love you to the end of the world, but while he’s waiting he’s been known to get his rocks off with yours truly on occasion and –”
He’d lost her. “Buffy? Slayer? Over here, pet. Still talking.”
Buffy jump and then blushed. “Sorry. I was having a visual.”
Spike leered out of habit and general principle. “Not yet, love. Point being, you’ve been known to do the same, as quite a bit of off-price real estate can testify. Not that I haven’t been enjoying the two weeks of non-stop pissing contest and Greek tragedy, but it gets old.”
“I told you. I can’t use you like that.”
Angel looked faintly interested. “I can. Like what?”
“Like a… a … toy. Like a…”
“Robot?” Spike suggested.
Buffy glared at him. Spike grinned. It was almost like old times.
And then it wasn’t, because Buffy was looking at Angel and Angel was looking at Buffy and he could fucking feel the world slow down to treacle and the sodding violins begin to play. Nothing was real but the two of them, not the ringing of phones or the murmuring of shit-scared lawyers into them or the blond vampire who was wishing, suddenly, that the couch would get on with chewing him up and spitting him out. Six months as solid as the bloody Albert Memorial and he could still feel himself fading away…
“Like a handmaid,” said Spike abruptly.
“What?” Angel was looking at him with that trademark expression of someone who thinks the conversation might have passed him somewhere back around the ‘70s.
Angel was looking at him. Spike breathed again, just because he could.
“I know you keep making cracks about my weight, but I don’t actually wear a corset,”Angel pointed out. “Can dress myself just fine. Wish I could say the same for…” a flickering glance at Spike’s outfit completed the sentence.
Spike rolled his eyes and resisted the temptation to defend a truly classic look. “Like that book by the Canadian bint?”
Two identical blank stares greeted him.
“Like the Bible?”
“The Bible is Canadian?” That was Buffy, so it was probably a joke. Spike was going to believe that anyway.
“Handmaid’s Tale. Ruth and… whatsherface. The maid stands in for her mistress, the master fucks her, everything’s peachy until the maid gets knocked up and goes mental. But seeing as Angel’s not likely to put a bun in my oven…”
Now why the hell would that bring a flash of pain to Angel’s eyes? He couldn’t possibly be wishing for a bushel of little great grand gits to dandle on his knee – or turn over it. Probably just feeling guilty about some baby he’d snacked on in the Edwardian era. Spike couldn’t worry about it now, not when he was this close to putting an actual new idea into the thickest skull God ever made.
“You fuck me. I fuck her. Everybody’s happy. Simple enough for you?”
Angel had that flat angry drawl that meant he was ten seconds from putting someone through the plate glass yet again. Spike had heard rumors he’d tripled the interior decorating budget. “YOU’d be happy, boyo. What’s in this for me?”
Spike thought wistfully of moving to Antarctica. Six months of night and no great hulking wassocks who couldn’t recognize a self-sacrifice if it burned to death in their laps.
“At once, you defective. You thrust, she screams. Close as you can get with that cut-rate gypsy soul of yours. That clear it up?”
Angel’s face was blank. Spike didn’t know what to make of that, so he looked back at Buffy. “You get your pretty picture.”
Buffy shook her head, no. Spike’s jaw tightened. “Suit yourself, then. Close your eyes and think of Ireland.”
Buffy punched him in the face. When did she get so close?
“Not that. It’s wrong.”
Spike licked the blood from his cut lip and heard her pulse speed up. “Wrong’s what we do best, love.”
Buffy licked her own lips in unconscious imitation. “Not anymore. Things are different now. You deserve better.”
Spike and Angel exchanged a look of sympathy – their first since Buffy had showed up. They both knew, if no one else did, what he deserved.
But there was no point in telling that to Buffy. She believed in him, and what she believed in stayed believed. Not that he really wanted to.
“You gonna give me what I deserve, Slayer?” Spike asked instead. His tone was as gentle as he could make it, considering. Was she ever gonna get that love isn’t some kind of bloody Scouting badge?
“I – I can’t. It’s not fair to Angel.” She was carefully not looking at either of them now.
“You gonna give Angel what he deserves, then?” Which was a boot in the arse, as far as Spike was concerned, but he didn’t get a vote.
Spike tensed, waiting for the answer. “I can’t.”
“Because of the curse. Angel, why the hell don’t you take the company jet down to Africa and get one without strings?”
Angel was standing in a sunbeam, looking out the window. “You don’t just get any soul. You get yours.”
Right. And if he lost it first, he wouldn’t fight to get it back. Spike sighed. Not that he wanted Buffy and Angel to ride off into the necrotempered sunset and forget all about him, but at least it’d be over.
“Because it’s not fair to you.”
Spike’s head whipped about to look Buffy in the eye.
“Oh,” was all he could find to say.
The ring of the phone was loud, but no one moved to answer it.
When it was over, Spike spoke. “And Angel won’t give me—” what I need — “the time of day while you’re here, because we can’t go two seconds without trying to tear each other’s throat out.”
“Not like we went so long before,” Angel pointed out.
Spike waved a dismissive hand. “That was foreplay.”
“For four MONTHS?”
Spike stood up so he could get some proper emphatic gesturing in. “I was incorporeal!”
“Not for the last one!”
“I was busy!”
“Sleeping with Harmony?”
“Once! Not like you were welcoming me with open arms!”
A hand waved in front of his face. No, between their faces, not that there was much room.
“Hello?”
They turned to Buffy. Spike hoped his sheepish expression didn’t look as stupid as Angel’s.
“Sorry,” they mumbled together, then shot each other dagger looks.
“What do you get out of it?” Buffy had her hands on her hips, which meant she really wanted an answer.
Spike wondered. Laid? The chance to give the woman he loved what she actually wanted? The chance to pretend that, if Angel could get a little happy without losing the soul, maybe he already had? The chance to out martyr the great brooder himself?
Nah, he wasn’t that stupid yet. Talk about cutting off your dick to spite your face.
“I get to be done with this conversation,” Spike said finally.
Angel caught Spike casually by the back of the neck. “I’m in,” he said.
*****
Mer
