Snow (sweptawaybayou) wrote,

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I am so done with this story.
I need to move on. Ever feel that way about a story? It consumes you, obsesses you, fills your waking/dreaming life. Then it's just time to let it go.
So I say. . .Fly! Be Free! Go meet some other ficlet and have a good life!


Here I present, for your smut enjoyment. . .


Sex, Drugs, Rock and Roll
Another Not For Profit Venture by Snow
Set AtS mid-season 5
Very minor spoiler/mention of You're Welcome
And remember ~~ Feedback is a GOOD thing and will be rewarded with many kisses and hugs

Anything you like about this? Thank my patient, kind betaGoddess chrisleeoctaves.
Anything you don't like? Totally on me. Stubborn, sick, twisted, ungrammatical <~is that a word? person that I am. . .


They met at the hotel again, each arriving alone, each leaving alone when they were finished. There was never any conversation, no inquiries into the other’s lives. Angel never asked Buffy how her search for potential slayers was going. Spike never asked her where Dawn was studying or if she ever used his name. Buffy never asked them about Wolfram and Hart or about the gossip she had heard about the various cases, the whispered rumors that Cordelia had woken before she had died. Perhaps if they met on the street, or in a bar or while dining at a restaurant it would be different. There would be concern and compassion. There would be interest and empathy.

They met here once a month for one thing only, to feed their addictions for each other. Who had proposed this strange arrangement? Did it matter? They fed off the hurt that they had caused each other so many times. They fed off the love that bound them together. The aching, mind bending, burning desire. The sex was different every month. On occasion, it was tender, but generally hard, punishing, violent, and always inventive. It left them all bruised and battered afterwards.

Not just physically.

When Buffy had found out that Spike was alive, she had come to him, but by then he and Angel had renewed their age-old relationship. Suddenly she was a guest in their lives, a guest in their beds. At these clandestine meetings, Spike and Angel never touched each other in her presence, whether they chose to refrain or it was an unconscious act. She knew from the way they would finish each other’s short sentences and the way the heat would burn her when she stood between them that they were the couple in the room.

She was the interloper.


When Buffy entered the dim room, the curtains drawn although it was the dark of night, she saw that Spike and Angel had already arrived. They sat in chairs on either side of the small fake wood table, both of them facing the television, pretending to watch. A small collection of beer bottles was scattered between them, Angel’s expensive Irish Whiskey bottle, already half empty. Smoke from Spike’s cigarettes drifted about the ceiling.

She closed the door behind her, locking it out of habit, although there was no need. Angel always rented the entire floor. There would be no neighbors, no maids, and no interruptions. No escape.

She marveled in the change that the last decade had brought to her first love. Not physical. Never that. But she could see time echoing in his eyes. His connections to humanity had aged him, vampire or not. His sad brooding had turned to a dark anger at all that he had so recently lost. She had thought him complex and intriguing, devastatingly attractive, when she had first met him so long ago in Sunnydale, but now he was different.

Harder. Warmer. More sarcastic. Less self deprecating.

Then there was Spike. She could still see the swoon in his blue eyes whenever he looked at her, feel the pull between them, but she could also see it when he looked at Angel. He seemed more content now than he had, with her, in Sunnydale, where he was always searching for something, always needy. She considered that perhaps joining with Angel, of being an integral part of Angel’s mission had given him the purpose and direction that she had not.


Angel watched her walk into the room, her soft pink summer dress clinging to her curves. She tossed her tiny jeweled purse onto the seat of the chair by the door and looked back at them, her hands resting on her slim hips.


Spike watched as Angel rose and crossed the room to Buffy. He was always surprised at his uncharacteristic lack of jealousy at letting Angel take charge, take control. At letting, without argument, Angel be the dominant, possessive one in the room. Spike needed this side of Angel. This was the Angel that Spike deliberately provoked.


Angel stood in front of Buffy. She had to point her chin almost straight up to see into his dark, half-open eyes. He leaned down and she parted her lips, expectant. But he bypassed her face, touching his cool lips momentarily to her neck, his fingers at the hem of her dress, pulling it up, over her head. She felt the reopening of an old emotional wound, a teenager’s angst and pain. She pushed the drama inside her away. Angel did not kiss her anymore, something she had noted, but would never remark upon, from the first time the three had met this way. She tried not to remember the days when kissing was all she and Angel had. The time when just that intimate, sacred act was enough, because it had to be.

Angel stepped back, his lips curving up slightly as she ran her fingers through her hair. Now wearing only a soft pink satin bra with tiny matching panties, garter and stockings, she looked like a dream.

Spike had moved to the bed, stripping his shirt off on the way. He leaned back against the headboard.

“Come here, pet.”

Buffy stood completely still, just staring at Spike lounging there, until Angel moved behind her and gently pushed her forward. She crawled up the bed to Spike on her hands and knees and he gathered her silky blonde hair up, held it in his hands and pulled her head up to his. Angel unhooked her bra and ran his hands down her sides, catching the garter, panties and stockings, pulling them down to her feet and off onto the floor. Spike kissed her roughly, sucking at her lips. He took one of her breasts in a free hand and pinched the nipple between his fingers. Still holding her hair, he moved her head down, forcing her to back up. Buffy ran her tongue along his abdomen as she moved, tasting smoke and sweat and Spike. She unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans. She freed his cock, long and swollen and hard. She planted little hot wet kisses all around it, taunted him with the warmth of her mouth. She gently rolled his balls in her fingers, cupped them, breathed on them.

Angel stood at the foot of the bed. He lifted Buffy’s hips, admired the smooth round, firmness of her ass and stroked the kitten soft skin on the backs of her thighs with the palms of his hands. Then he pushed her knees so far apart that she strained to stay balanced on them; she held determinedly onto Spike’s waist. Angel rolled his fingers in her center, found moisture and heat, moved them in and out of her. First one, then two, stretching her with three. He opened his pants and coated himself with her scent, bringing it up to his mouth for a taste. She leaned back toward his touch, but he just kept teasing her, making her quiver. Angel saw Spike’s eyes close and could tell from the tilt of the back of Buffy’s head that she finally had Spike in her mouth. Then he knelt on the bed behind her and slowly pushed his own cock into her. He felt her tense around him, tight and hot and perfect.

Buffy briefly, somewhat incoherently, entertained the thought that Angel was trying to force his way through her to Spike, his stokes were so long and deep. She knew that if she could see him, his dark stare would be locked on Spike’s angular face. Angel held her still, his grip on her hips tight enough that he would leave fingerprints that she would see tomorrow, all so that she could not move away from his drawn out, methodical thrusts. Spike kept his hands in her hair, holding her head and she heard his sharp intake of breath as he reached the edge. Buffy pulled on him with her mouth, letting her teeth scrape him, swirling her tongue. She felt his abdominal muscles tighten under her fingers. He came with low, gruff moans and she swallowed him down, still sucking even after he had finished. Angel pulled her up, away from Spike so her back was against his chest. She sat on his thighs and he held her down, still deep inside her, motionless.

Impaled on Angel’s lap, held in place by his marble muscles, as if she would try to get away from him, she watched Spike reach over to the table and grab his beer. He took a long drink, then held the bottle up to her lips, giving her the last of the still cool liquid. Spike kissed her, running his tongue around the inside of her mouth, then sat back as Angel started moving again. He filled one hand with a breast and slid the other down her belly, between her legs, finding her swollen clit, moving his fingers against it relentlessly. Buffy closed her eyes, leaning back into him, letting the sweeping orgasm take her, shake her.

When he was done, Angel let her fall forward. She rolled onto her back and immediately looked at him, another habit she could not break. His face was expressionless, his eyes dark. Spike moved on top of her, filled her view, blonde, sinewy, graceful, sliding into her. He kept his mouth on hers as she enveloped him, lifted her hips to meet him, moaned and panted and tried to breath around his constant kisses, his darting tongue. Before she could catch another wave, Spike abruptly pulled away from her, getting off the bed.

Buffy lay there, still wanting, still aching.


Angel took his tie from the suit jacket and shirt that he had thrown over the back of his chair at the table earlier. He pulled her onto her knees and covered her eyes with it, knotting the ends behind her head.

“Clean it off.”

She heard Spike’s low laugh at Angel’s direction as she knelt on the rumpled bedding and then she heard the sound of bottles and glasses moved. She felt Angel’s cool, large hands lift her off the bed and lay her down on the table. Her back and bottom naked against the hard surface, she shivered. There was the sharp rasp of Spike’s lighter and the sweet, unmistakable odor of marijuana.

Spike kissed her roughly, surprising her. Before she could object, he blew smoke into her lungs. She coughed, but did not push him away when he came back with another hit for her and then another.

Angel went to the small refrigerator, sorting through the assorted stock of tiny liquor bottles and brought them to the table. He opened one, drank half, then poured some over one of Buffy’s breasts. She gasped at the sudden cold and arched her back up to meet him when he nibbled and licked at her nipple, then chased the liquid down her trembling belly.

Spike kissed her again, giving her the last of the smoke. She felt the drug start to work, her arms and legs became heavy and the room seemed warmer.

He and Angel drank all of the alcohol either from the little bottles or from Buffy’s breasts and belly. Their voices grew louder as they became drunker. She tried to concentrate on their words, but all she could think about was the aching heat between her legs. She lived for the cold trickle that would come from the right or the left, then the cool mouth that would suck and bite and lick. She held tightly onto the table with her hands and her knees dangled off the edge.

Spike lit another joint and smoked it slowly, randomly giving Buffy smoke-filled kisses. She was sure that she was floating near the ceiling when she heard Angel whisper next to her ear. His low voice was touched with the soft Gaelic lilt that only appeared when he was very drunk or very pissed off.

“Now we’re going to play a game.”

She felt his hands on her knees. Angel pushed them apart, then the touch of cold glass against the sensitive skin of her inner and outer thighs.

“I’m putting these empty bottles here and then I am going to touch you here.”

A moan escaped her when she felt the touch of his hand between her legs. On her hot, wet, wanting center.

“But if you knock down any of the bottles, I’ll have to stop.”

She felt pressure as his long fingers moved in her. The glass between her legs was tinkling as she twitched, trying to arch up, to have more of him inside of her.

“Be careful.”

Angel started slowly and Buffy, after waiting for so long, was unable to be motionless. She heard a soft clink as something fell over. Angel took his hands away and Buffy groaned.

“My turn.”

Buffy could feel the bottles being set back up beside her legs and Spike’s rougher touch open her. She took a deep breath and clenched her thigh muscles, determined. She caught her bottom lip with her teeth, biting down on it as Spike’s fingers filled her, coaxed moans from her. She cried out when she felt Angel’s mouth on her breast. He pulled at her nipple, licked, sucked, and immediately let go when the bottles fell again.

Buffy begged with wordless sounds as Spike took his hands off her. They traded again, Angel’s fingers inside her and Spike’s cool lips on her breasts. Buffy lost track of how many times the bottles fell and how many times they stopped. The room spun around her in the dark and her brain swirled with the drugs, the heat, and the aching need. She could not tell anymore which of her lovers was where and who was touching her.

“Please, please,” she cried as the denial of her orgasm burned.

“Okay, okay.”

Buffy heard Angel’s soft laugh as he took her off the table. He pulled off the blindfold and Buffy fell into his arms, kissing his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, her legs wrapped around him, not for a moment caring that she was grinding herself wantonly against him. Angel carried her to where Spike stood against the wall. He held her up in between them, her back to Spike.

Buffy was desperate to find a rhythm or friction against Angel. He held her just above his waist as she rubbed on him, her face buried in his neck. Her fingernails ripped into his arms and blood ran down, dripping off his elbows as Spike pulled her closer and pushed into her pulsing center. He kept his movements slow and deliberate even though she was so close, she felt like fire inside. Spike caught some of the blood from Angel’s torn skin on his fingers and mixed it with the precome that dripped from him and Buffy’s wet heat that coated him. Then, as gently as he could, gradually entered her tight bottom. He supported her, his hands under her thighs, as Angel rammed his cock into her from the front. They rocked her between them, her mouth open, tears running down her face as she wept for release. Then finally she was coming and coming. Screaming with the soaring, overwhelming intensity they had given her.

Angel leaned over Buffy’s shoulder, caught Spike’s mouth with his. They kissed. Their lips hard and needing, chins scraping and teeth biting, all the while the girl between them convulsed in ecstasy. The two vampire’s eyes changed to matching yellow, neither one willing to let go of the other’s gaze as they each filled her with their cold, dead seed at the same time. Their muscles shuddering with spent tension and drained passion. They stood, leaning against and into each other, fused together with sweat and come.

Angel and Spike let Buffy slide down to her feet slowly, all of them suddenly conscious of the separation, the emptiness and the chill. Buffy pretended not to notice the blood stain that reddened their lips as they stared over her, at each other. Just as she had pretended not to see and feel the passion of the kiss they shared while they had pounded into her, felt each other in her and through her. Silent, they gathered up their clothes. Wincing as getting dressed moved torn and bruised body parts that would instantly remind them of each other, until they healed. The room smelled of sex and smoke, stale beer and whiskey.

Buffy decided, just as she had at this moment every time, she was never doing this again. She would go back to England and stay there. Tour Europe. Go back to school. Find a normal boyfriend. Get a life. It hurt too much to see Angel kiss Spike as she yearned to be kissed by him. It hurt too much to see Spike’s eyes follow Angel’s every move as they used to follow hers. This was not healthy. This was not right.

Spike caught her hand as she grabbed her purse off the chair and reached for the doorknob.

“See you next month pet?”


She pushed him out of the way and left quickly, not looking back.

Spike leaned against the open door’s frame and lit a cigarette.

“Why does she say that every damn time?”

Angel adjusted his tie and arched an eyebrow at his child’s question as he walked toward him.

“She’ll be here. We’ll all be here.”


BTW~I just about lost it when I saw 'Shells' and Spike was playing with the little Jack Daniel's Bottles. . .Just Fucking Killed Me.

Thank you, Joss. I am done now.
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