Given the choice, Spike would not
have been in the Summers' house, rummaging for stuff, while they were all out.
No, given the choice, he'd have come when they were all there and tortured them
for days, alternately fucking them till they died of one thing or the other.
Yeah, right. Who was he kidding? Given the choice, he'd have come over, made sweet mind-blowing love to the Slayer, told funny stories to the little 'un and been adopted by the Mum.
But being dead and unpopular meant he couldn't be choosey. He had to go with what he had, he had to go with his reputation. So he came over and…acquired stuff when the three women were in the hospital doing something with a tumor.
Oh, and how ironic was that? Someone else who had something in their bloody brain they didn’t ask for, or like.
He'd had a very successful rummage so far, found lots of things worth nicking…what were they called? Oh yes…dollars. Found over one hundred of those. Finder's keepers as they say.
Now, ordinarily, Spike would not have extended his rummage expedition upstairs to Buffy's bedroom. Nothing in a teenage girl's bedroom worth nicking, except the girl herself. And though that was a pleasant thought, it was not very likely, given that he was dead, evil and annoying. Well, at least, he tried to be!
But today he was feeling nostalgic, lonely and bored. So he went upstairs. To her bedroom.
Lots of stuff to play with.
He searched the wardrobe, looked under the bed, in the bed, in all the drawers and behind all the drawers.
A teenage girl's bedroom. He'd been living with depraved, female Vampires too long he guessed. He'd expected to find sex toys, porn mags, bits of used underwear and misused stakes, anything to relieve the boredom.
It was all pink and fluffy and saccharinely vacuous.
He felt disappointed. If he'd made the effort to look, the least she could do was to provide him with a little…stimulation.
What was that?
That looked promising.
A corner of the carpet was lifted away: easy to lift it a bit more then. Uh huh! A shoebox, hidden in a loose floorboard.
Ahh. Now we're getting somewhere.
But the box held disappointing treasure. A jar of something and a pink sweater tightly balled up and stuffed in as though of no value.
Spike opened the jar.
He peered closely at its contents.
He tasted it.
He rubbed it between his fingers.
He smelt it.
Something very special.
He could actually taste the memory that came flooding back from that evocative smell.
This was a jar of hair gel.
This was a jar of Angel's hair gel.
If he closed his eyes and smelt it, he was smelling Angel's hair.
He fingered the pink sweater. Why was it in a box, hidden in the Slayer's room with a jar of Angel's hair gel? He held it up to the light and let its light, gossamer material drift down to his face. He inhaled deeply.
Again, the smell of Angel. Only this time, a smell so potent that Spike was instantly hard. The sweater smelt of Angel's cum. Angel had cum over this sweater!
All the layers of Spike's complex relationship with his Sire started to peel away at the sight, touch and smell of the spent seed on this scrap of fabric. Years of loving, fucking, fighting and hating flooded through his mind. But in his nostalgic, lonely, bored mood, two smells: Angel's sweet, soft hair and Angel's potent, illicit cum, focused him to the first two of those.
Loving Angel and fucking Angel.
Oh yeah! He was hard all right.
He rubbed himself through his jeans for a while pondering his find. He wondered how Angel's cum came to be on the Slayer's sweater. Well, obviously, not how it literally came to be there – that he could work out for himself. No, it was just interesting to speculate why it went to waste like that. He'd never spilt a drop of Sire cum: ever. And he knew he was a better demon for it.
Poor old Sire. Slayer don’t like to swallow then.
He started to picture the scene. Maybe it had been in this very bedroom: over there on the bed.
He went to sit on the bed too.
Maybe she got it out for Angel, easing his cock gently through his fly.
He got himself out too.
Had her hand crept with innocent wonderment up that thick, throbbing shaft?
His hand crept up his cock, working the foreskin lightly.
He thought of Buffy's hand on his cock: saw it lying there, tiny, pink and fragile. Well, no, probably able to crush ball bearings knowing the Slayer. But that was not a good thought, just as that tiny hand was creeping up towards the root of his cock.
Then he thought about Angel and imagined his hand on Angel's cock. That was equally interesting to think about. He pulled his foreskin sharply back and ran his finger swirlingly over the swollen, blood red tip. He'd done this for Angel many times. Angel had liked Spike to play with his cock before they hunted together. It gave him an appetite. Spike scratched his nail into his slit and hissed. He enjoyed making Angel hiss.
But Buffy became impatient, so he let her start work on his cock again. She wanted to get the speed right, so he helped her find a strong, pumping rhythm. She enjoyed him teaching her to hold his cock. But now Angel was getting jealous, so Spike lifted the sweater to his face again to mollify his Sire. Angel grinned back, licking his lips and thrust harder into Spike's strong grasp.
Buffy pushed him onto his back on the bed. Angel lay down beside him and his cock lay long and potent on his smooth belly. Spike sped up his hand. They both closed their eyes and Buffy used her other hand to fondle his balls, rolling and squeezing them to match the rhythm he was making with Angel's cock. She had a special request too. When he heard it, Angel laughed. Spike got ready; he could feel his balls contracting under Buffy's now, educated hand. He could see the ancient desire in Angel's face; smell the near explosion of Angel's cum.
He started dragging Angel's foreskin up over the top, pinching hard as he knew Angel liked. Buffy did the same on his cock. He could picture those pink-tipped, shell-like nails glistening with his precum.
Then he knew he was coming and he could see the same knowledge in Angel's beautiful face. Eyes wide with lust and anticipation they came together, an eruption of matching seed, as Buffy had requested, onto the waiting, pink sweater. He held it there till every spurt was captured: till his cock subsided into a soft, delicious twitch.
Buffy climbed off and decided to take a shower. Spike said he would watch later, when he was alone in his crypt. He liked watching her in the shower when he had nothing better to do in his crypt. Sometimes he joined her too.
Angel was rather more perplexing. He gave Spike a sad, wistful smile as if to say he too had enjoyed this, but was sorry he had hadn't been there. Maybe they could get together later, too? Spike lay for a while watching the dust spiral around in the shafts of sunlight which were streaking through the Slayer's windows.
It was very quiet again suddenly.
Except for the sound of the front door.
No. One person.
He could smell him.
He leapt off the bed and adjusted his clothing and stuffed the jar of hair gel into his pocket to hide it. But oh…the precious pink sweater where he had mingled his scent with his Sire's. His cum on her sweater, mixed with Angel's. A trinity of love.
He couldn't bear to put it away. He just had to have one more smell.
He held that pink, fragile material up to sunlight and let it drift over his face. Who had aroused him more? The Slayer who was now calling to him from the shower or…Angel, who was looking back at him over his shoulder as he reluctantly left for LA: alone.
He felt this was a critical decision to make. One that might affect things beyond even his capacity for imagination. He was almost there…almost had an answer, had almost made a decision, when his train of thought was shattered.
'What are you doing in here?'
'What me?' Fucking soldier boy! 'I was…um…err…what are you doing here?'
'Looking for the girl who's gonna rip your arms off when she finds out you were in her bedroom!'
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Spike didn’t give a fuck about Captain Cardboard finding him, but he'd now totally lost the moment. Lost his train of thought. Yep, completely derailed on this one!
Guess he'd have to get back to his crypt and ponder it some more.
Which one should he pursue? Which one should he commit to?
And, oh…how handy! A pair of delicate, pink lacy things leapt out at him and attached themselves to his hand as he passed by.
Yeah, he'd get the Slayer to put them on when he got home: just to help him decide. Then she could take them off.
Angel, who had apparently not gone back to LA, was furious and claimed unfair advantage of teenage girl's panties. As Spike stomped home under his blanket, he grinned at Angel to reassure him. When he got back to his crypt, he showed Angel what he had bought with him to put Angel's case.
Oh yeah! Nothing like smelling soft, Sire's hair as you watch a Slayer going through some fighting moves dressed only in a pair of pink knickers.
Angel watched too his hand, this time, on Spike's cock. Angel really liked that old hair gel, he'd even put a dollop on his hand, just for Spike's benefit. It felt cool and slick on his cock as Angel's strong hand worked him.
Slayer was obligingly doing some splits, the panties covering nothing. Spike could see the soft golden hair peeking out either side of the far too small slip of silk. They stuck to her slightly, saturated as they were with her juices.
Angel clearly thought Spike's intense concentration on the Slayer's almost visible cunt was losing him precious ground in this battle for Spike's affections. He tightened his grip on Spike's cock and started whispering in his ear: soft words of evil, demon foreplay.
Spike closed his eyes, losing his view of the Slayer who was trying to regain ground by pulling her panties to one side and investigating her soft, wet folds with strong, experienced and insistent fingers. He couldn't help it: Angel was whispering of blood and power and shared eternity. Angel pressed his mouth to Spike's and bit savagely on Spike's tongue. Spike felt his cold demon blood run down his throat as the tightening in his balls became unbearable.
Angel lifted his spare hand under Spike's nose and let the smell of his soft hair wash over him.
Slayer was moaning not far away, clearly bringing herself to her own, explosive orgasm. He wanted to open his eyes and watch, but Angel was kissing his closed eyelids and his soft whispered words had changed to ones of human promise. Angel promised to love him: Angel promised he'd never leave him: Angel promised to make him his again.
Angel softly repeated the word: mine, mine, mine. Spike felt his cock throb and swell in Angel's hand.
Mine, mine, mine.
His cold seed erupted into the quiet crypt. Slayer was sitting, legs akimbo, watching him expectantly. Angel didn't move at all except to slip his hand into Spike's pocket and fondle something he found there: a wicked grin on his face.
Spike opened his eyes to the now empty crypt.
It still wasn’t an easy decision.
They both had their advantages.
Spike wondered what it was Angel had found in his pocket. He put a now, rather sticky hand, into the deep recess to find…
The $100 he'd stolen earlier.
Oh yeah. Well-done Angel. Enough for a bus ticket to LA.
And, of course, there was the threat of having his arms ripped off if he stayed in Sunnydale, and if Captain Cardboard narked on him.
He looked down at his now thoroughly spent cock. Angel came back, knelt in front of him and with a grin, licked up the underside till it twitched slightly with the promise of rejuvenation.
Spike looked at Angel.
Angel looked at Spike and laughed. Angel, of course, had known all along what the decision would be.
Sires were like that, he guessed.
This story continues in Insubstantial
Trick of the Light