Lingerie
folder
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
6
Views:
5,238
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
6
Views:
5,238
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
5 (s/a, s/x)
Angel's POV
He didn’t expect that. When the door to Xander’s apartment opened, he expected Xander – albeit a scowling, what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-here Xander – or Willow, or hell, even Buffy. But not Spike.
Not Spike in a black leather corset. Especially not Spike in a suede black leather corset with satin lacings and eyelet edging. Not Spike in a matching suede G-string, a black lace garter belt, and silk stockings. And certainly, Oh God, certainly not Spike in bend-over-and-grab-your-ankles,-boy,-cause-I’m-gonna-make-you-bleed high-heeled pumps.
Oh, shit.
The sexy smirk Spike wore when he opened the door immediately slunk off to wait for someone a little less dead, but Angel didn’t stick around to notice. He didn’t stop until he reached the parking lot; propped against a cool brick wall, he grappled for breath. Images began to blend – pastfuture, oldnew, soulsoulless – until…*Sire, Please*. A pale neck, collared by a single, velvet ribbon, arched in submission. *Please* Not marble skin, but soft suede, suede and silk caressing his fingertips. *Liam* Eyes of blueblueblue, not hidden by goldenbrown curls, but rimmed in inky black kohl. *Sire, I need…*
Oh, shit.
This wasn’t happening. No, he was not hard at the thought of Spike, SPIKE, of all people! He was not here to ogle his irritating, snarky, evil, annoying, amusing, beautiful, sexy-as-fuck…NO! No. There was a reason he was here. There was something. Some reason. A vision? Something about an amulet? Amulet…amulet…oh, hell.
Sighing, he reaches for that damn cell phone. He can see their responses: Cordy will bitch, roll her eyes, and give herself a pay raise; Wesley will sigh and contort his face into that must-be-taught-at-the-Watcher’s-Academy frown; Gunn will roll his head back against his shoulders and ask why the hell they were taking out a nest of moldy-ass vamps in some smelly old woman’s basement, while he was off taking a vacation.
He punches in the number, hoping Fred will answer.
He didn’t expect that. When the door to Xander’s apartment opened, he expected Xander – albeit a scowling, what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-here Xander – or Willow, or hell, even Buffy. But not Spike.
Not Spike in a black leather corset. Especially not Spike in a suede black leather corset with satin lacings and eyelet edging. Not Spike in a matching suede G-string, a black lace garter belt, and silk stockings. And certainly, Oh God, certainly not Spike in bend-over-and-grab-your-ankles,-boy,-cause-I’m-gonna-make-you-bleed high-heeled pumps.
Oh, shit.
The sexy smirk Spike wore when he opened the door immediately slunk off to wait for someone a little less dead, but Angel didn’t stick around to notice. He didn’t stop until he reached the parking lot; propped against a cool brick wall, he grappled for breath. Images began to blend – pastfuture, oldnew, soulsoulless – until…*Sire, Please*. A pale neck, collared by a single, velvet ribbon, arched in submission. *Please* Not marble skin, but soft suede, suede and silk caressing his fingertips. *Liam* Eyes of blueblueblue, not hidden by goldenbrown curls, but rimmed in inky black kohl. *Sire, I need…*
Oh, shit.
This wasn’t happening. No, he was not hard at the thought of Spike, SPIKE, of all people! He was not here to ogle his irritating, snarky, evil, annoying, amusing, beautiful, sexy-as-fuck…NO! No. There was a reason he was here. There was something. Some reason. A vision? Something about an amulet? Amulet…amulet…oh, hell.
Sighing, he reaches for that damn cell phone. He can see their responses: Cordy will bitch, roll her eyes, and give herself a pay raise; Wesley will sigh and contort his face into that must-be-taught-at-the-Watcher’s-Academy frown; Gunn will roll his head back against his shoulders and ask why the hell they were taking out a nest of moldy-ass vamps in some smelly old woman’s basement, while he was off taking a vacation.
He punches in the number, hoping Fred will answer.