Laura Stone (stoney321) wrote,
Laura Stone
stoney321

The Original Wee!Spike! Accept No Substitutes!

Except kita0610 first used "Little One." But dammit, I'm the first that actually shrunk the bastard, then jammed him up Angel's ass. *sniffs* It's (technically not anymore, but the earth and time zones are working AGAINST me) dovil's birthday! And she looks fantastic for 84, no really. Spry, still has all her teeth... She only eats canned cat food for the FLAVOR, not because it's just easier to "pass" if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

I have met the lovely birthday girl. Have gone on a whirlwind excursion with her, actually, and she has held my hair when I've party fouled. The nimrod sent ME a gift this weekend and it's HER birthday! (D? The cds are GREAT and I've already started flipping through the book. Not reading it, mind, just flipping. What? It's been hot and it makes a good fan!) so in return I have what she really wants: out of control silly fic that takes the piss out of fandom, or as I call it: the flist thinner.

Warning: this will clear your sinuses. Let's get to it.

Title: Wee!Spike and The Singing Penis!
Author: Psssh.
Rating: Is there an NC 84?
Summary: In which your hed asplode. Gimmie a break, folks.
Current Temp: 73, and this is the very DEFINITION of crack!fic. ZOMG I'm othering MYSELF.

Last we saw Wee!Spike, he was becoming bionic...



~*~*~

"Oi!"

Angel continued to pull the petals off the daisy he had plucked in the the early morning dawn.

"Angel! Cor!"

Angel was now humming as he was want to do - something by the Pointer Sisters, if you must know.

"Blimey Peaches Buggering Sodding-" It wasn't working. Spike thought very hard - he was a thinker, let's not kid ourselves - and realized what would break the romantic spell that seemed to weave itself about his tall, dark, brooding, overly-talkative unlife mate. Weave itself about him not unlike a fine tapestry made in the misty, high mountains of Marrakesh or some other exotic sounding far-away place - unless you lived there, in which case, make it a tall tower in Cleveland - a tapestry made of many colors, many patterns, many designs. Like that. Or just weave itself about his lover like a bad toupee, it was too early to tell because he hadn't done anything yet.

Spike reclined on the bed, ran his hand down his marble-like, alabaster, pale, moonlit, fresh-milk skin to his jeans where he unzipped them. The jeans. He pulled that zipper down like zipper on a tent high in the mountains with a needy sheepherder who heard a lamb that... needed help getting over a fence. If you know what he meant. And I think you do. So now his zipper is down and springing forth from his curls like a mighty Zulu Warrior from the scrub brush on the savannah, except without a spear or poisoned darts because his penis didn't have hands, his cock... sprung forth.

As soon as that mighty flesh tube filled with spongy material, blood vessels, and all-powerful seed - Spike had taken to inserting tomato seeds into the mouth of his penis. He had read somewhere that tomatoes were high in anti-oxidants, and Spike liked the use of the word "anti" and also, he enjoyed putting things in his penis. And that's why his penis was full of seed. So. Dick out. It must have given off powerful pheromones for as soon as his thunderstick was released from its denim prison, Angel moaned. And threw the daisy to the floor. And considering the lack of mass on the daisy, it really just floated slowly to the ground, so... Not the effect he was going for. But that's Angel's POV, and this story is about Spike and his magic, powerful, healing, anti-establishment fuck-ship and Angel's love bay.

"Comin' in for a landin', love."

"I love it when you call me love. In fact, I've written an essay about how much I've loved you over the past century, and how I've been too stupid to say it. I love you, Spike Willimena McBurgenstein Golightly!"

At the sound of Angel's words of love, Spike sighed. But not with love, or relief, or happiness, but because - as we've all figured out by now - when Angel loves Spike, he becomes wee. Or rather, Wee. Spike shrank with a *pop* to five inches.

"It's allllll about you, isn't it? Fine, fine, drop your pants. But first, my tub of lube. Mustn't forget the lube."

Angel hopped into his forklift, flipped on the swirling lights and drove to the high shelf in the bathroom and raised the platform up, then with deft and clever fingers, used the controls to load the massive tub of lube onto the movable lift, then, with the warning siren beeping in a steady staccato, backed up, and lowered the ginormous tub onto the bedroom floor. With his demon strength, he wrenched the lid off, picked up Spike, and flicked him into the lube, where Spike began swimming a backstroke, breast stroke, then just doggy-paddled for a moment, ensuring that his whole gleaming, white, bone-colored, rock hard, undead body was completely coated in the slick wet. Because you can never use enough lube, let's face it.

Angel sighed and batted his eyelashes then squatted over his Lilliputian grease-monkey. Spike slipped up inside him and made quick work of kicking and punching Angel's prostate, which was incredibly challenging as Angel was not prostrate, but Spike is a vampire of many talents. And he had been desperate to show Angel his newest talent before the love-sick, talkative, wishy-washy dark haired vamp (we wouldn't want you to confuse which was which) his latest ability, but now he couldn't. Now he was too small. Smaller than a midget. More miniscule than an Ozian Little Person. Less powerful than - he was tiny, okay? He needed to DO something about it!

He stroked his torso in and out of Angel's winking, puckering, fluttering, blinking, twinkling, cramping, flexing, constricting, wrenching, clasping, quelling hole of love and sex and happiness and world peace - his arse, if you will. And you will. He picked up his pace, not unlike a runner who sees the finish line on the horizon, crowds cheering, hands reaching out to hand him gatorade, except he was jangling up and down in someone's asshole, not on a city street with crowds and a number pinned to his chest. But the finish line was real. Oh, yes.

Angel bawled out, "ZOMGmommy Igonna cuuuuuuuuuuuuuum, and I just said that with a 'u' and I meant to say Cooooooooooooome!"

And come Angel did. He came with the vengeance of a pissed off Jehovah's Witness with a quota to meet. He came with such ferocity, one might even say the vampire arrived. His creamy, viscous, milky spendings shot forth from his incredibly average penis. It spurted, sprayed, spouted, disgorged, belched, exploded, was ousted from his body with the force of a wet noodle. Spent, exhausted, tired, worn out, fagged, sleepy, tired, and all out done, Angel lay on his side, reached back behind hiim and pulled his lover from betwixt his ass cheeks and set Spike on a velvet pillow - Scotchgarded, of course - and smiled. If there was anything Angel loved to do as much as the horizontal - or vertical or diagonal - tango, it was smiling. As Angel began to drift off into post-coital bliss, Spike felt the change take over him.

Hot flashes, irritability, random chin hairs sprouting, and then a hump formed on his back until his body grew back to its normal five foot six eight and a half - he made sure to put his magic boots back on. But nothing else because a naked man in black motorcycle boots with lifts buckles is the hot. And also, the sex. The. He chanced a look at Angel - for deep down he expected Angel to hit him, because for all his daisy picking and smiling and outright joy that he constantly emanated, Angel liked to hit. Angel saw Spike flinch, and rabbit punched his arm twice.

"Two for flinching!"

Well, no chance of Spike shrinking now. It was time.

Spike flopped back on the bed, propped himself up on his elbows, and shouted out to Angel, which was strange because he was RIGHT THERE, "Oi! Buggering Sodding Bloody Peaches Berk Minging Pet!"

Angel cocked - heh - one eye and looked at his pale, luminescent, granite - if granite was the purest of white - lover and absolute BFF and replied, "Yeah?"

"Taught it to sing."

Spike focused very hard, and the piss slit of his love pump coughed, cleared its throat, and moaned. "Oi! Come on, now! Like we rehearsed!" Spike reached back and hit the tape deck that just happened to be on the dresser and some of Angel's Euro dance tunes began playing. Spike rolled his eyes, then watched and his dancing, bouncing, bobbing, cavorting cock-of-the-walk as it gamboled among the pure white, um, light brown curls at the delta of his thighs. And it sang. It sang of love, of having a "groove," which it did on the underside of his uncut penis - born in the 1800s, let's not forget - and it sang of having a purpose. A special purpose. And that purpose? To burrow into Angel's ass of warmth and home and belonging and also friction as much as possible. But before Angel could sigh and exclaim with the love ever-present in his heart, Spike clapped his hand over his lover's mouth - his penis wasn't done yet.

And you can hear the penis' song right here. Let's all sigh with love today. And get the music in us. And also a penis - for they heal the world. They set you FREEEEEEEEEEEEE! Now if you don't mind, I'm going to spend all of my free time looking at the beautiful things today. Cock is King.

~*~*~

Told you I was broken inside. And lastly, IT'S LIKE THIS WAS MADE WITH YOU IN MIND, DOVIL!!! Ahahahaha!!!
Tags: fic, funny fic, parody fic, wee!spike
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