Pairing: Doyle/Angel, Doyle/Angel/Xander
RATING: NC-17. Angel/Doyle, Other (heh heh heh) on slide-whistle. Humour,
Cordelia displaying contextual intelligence, more male to male sex than you
can shake a Fundamentalist looney at, rampant condiment abuse.
DISCLAIMER: They belong to Joss Whedon, not this little Aussie Queerboy. But
hey Joss, we've got Xena...wanna trade?
SPOILERS: "Room with a Vu".
SUMMARY: How DID the peanut butter get on the sheets?
NOTES: For all the nice people who liked my previous fics (and if you
didn't, may you dance in the sun with yak fat on your head) and for
Viridian5, who got my evil little muse started. This lunacy inspired by
"Vu's" slash-heavy dialogue, and my own predilection for peanut butter (not
in that way, you degenerates!...Unless your last name is Boreanaz...or
Brendon...or Marsters...or Bagby III...)
PS- in this fic, Cordy, not Angel, says the peanut butter line. Poetic
license; work with me here people.
FEEDBACK: Comments? Questions? Donations to the "mail David Boreanaz to
Wirrrn's House" campaign fund? WIRRRN@HOTMAIL.COM.
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THE TRUTH ABOUT BATS AND SNOGS
By WIRRRN.
"Oh, go on Angel-- come out with me...we'll have fun..."
Doyle to Angel, in ANGEL: "LONELY HEARTS"
"Denial? Ha! Son, if I wanted smoke blown up my ass,
I'd be at home with a packet of cigarettes
and a short length of hose".
--THE SIMPSONS: "MARGE BE NOT PROUD"
"Hey, Angel? There's peanut butter on your bedsheets..."
Cordelia brushed a stray lock of damp hair that had dared fall in her eyes back into place. She'd be having a word with her Stylist later (fortunately for said stylist and his ear-drums, he'd already quit the profession and become a Reindeer-gelder in Reykjavic within an hour of discovering he'd used the wrong hair spray on Hell's Pom-Pom Girl). She pinned the vampire to the wall with her best "fob me off-- I dare you" look.
The vampire felt all the blood in his system rush to his toes. Since there wasn't that much blood in said system in the first place, he immediately became light-headed and felt a sudden, suicidal urge to giggle-- not a wise move when being interrogated, even casually, by Cordelia Love Chase. Why didn't he just tell Acathala that it looked like a hung-over garden gnome whilst he was at it?
"Ummm...I don't eat?" //Though I've been known to swallow... Down, boy//
"Huh," remarked Cordelia. Doyle, sitting across the table from Angel, stared into the vampire's eyes and frantically tried to develop telepathy. His great-grandmother had it (along with a nasty case of leaf rot which we won't at present go into), but his genes seemed to have gone with the "rosebush for a head" optional extra instead of second sight.
//Shite, Angel...she's gettin' that Nancy Drew gleam in her eyes...distract her! Wave somethin' shiny in front of her face!//
Angel stood, still clad in the robe and boxers he'd thrown on after the shower, and idly rubbed at one of his nipples.
//That's not what I meant...wave somethin' else!// Doyle thought desperately, Angel's actions threatening to distract HIM, very visibly at lap-level, at any moment. He knew he'd end up ruing that "stiffener" comment he'd made sooner or later.
Cordelia fixed Angel with one of her trademarked inscrutable looks, the one where he didn't know whether she was contemplating his sex life and the partners therein, the meaning of human existence in a vast, uncaring universe, or whether she was supposed to hand or machine wash her beanie baby collection.
"You don't eat? Then I don't even want to think about where the stain came from..."
Doyle suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to conduct an in-depth study of his "Demons Do It Till Hell Freezes Over" coffee mug, whilst Angel's face turned a most un-vampire like (yet still fetching) beetroot red to within an inch of his scalp (even his skin cells knowing better than to mess with The Hair).
"Okay, I'll go look..." Cordelia's face bore the unmistakable warning signs that a huff was imminent. Buffy, Spike, even the Hellmouth had learned to be leery of pushing her buttons, questioning her single status, or attempting to bite off her face, respectively, when she was in this state of pre-huffness.
As soon as she'd left the room, Angel and Doyle jumped up and regarded each other.
"Are you crazy? Leaving peanut butter on the sheets when SHE's staying over?" they both said simultaneously, though Doyle's version had less "th" and more "d" in it, and Angel's had that whole sexy-quirk-to-the-lip thing happening.
Angel's eyebrows shot up, perilously close to his hairline, which crackled in warning until he lowered them again. "What do you mean me? I haven't been near a jar of peanut butter since they actually put peanuts in it..."
Doyle, though his resolve had been weakened by the aforementioned eyebrow-raising, stuck to his guns. "Well don't look at me...I don't use the stuff... One of my sisters is a WalnutDemon; it'd be tantamount to cannibalism..."
Angel let this sink in. "Wait then...what did we use?"
Doyle checked a list off on his fingers. "Let's see now; chocolate sauce, caramel sauce, double fudge-o-ripple sauce, dairy whip, fruit-of-the-forest yoghurt, McDonald's hotcake syrup, oh, and you sprinkled those pop-rocks into your navel..."
"Right..." Angel said, glad he was only in his boxers. He was starting to get decidedly warm.
//Warm? Wait a minute--//
Doyle continued, "Waffle batter, cookie dough, bubble-gum flavoured ice-cream, spaghetti-O's, Fruit Loops...and then LAST NIGHT we used..."
The young demon's finger counting was abruptly cut off as Angel took his current finger and sucked it into his mouth to the third knuckle.
"Aaaangel," Doyle moaned, wishing he had a higher knuckle-to -finger ratio. //Damn horseshoe crabs don't know a good thing when they scuttle over it...//
Angel's lips had found the younger man's collar bone, and were busily tracing it beneath the alluringly pale skin.
Pausing between kisses, he purred: "How long... (smack)...before (smack smack)...you think (smaaaaaaaaack) Cordelia comes back?"
Doyle's vocal chords sent a priority over-ride message for his brain to send him the schematics of how they were supposed to form sounds other than "oooOOOOaaaahhh" again. Reluctantly, his brain complied, then went back to the more immediately pressing problem of whether the sonic boom caused by him getting Angel naked as quickly as possible would wake up the neighbours.
"Well, she went to check the peanut butter stain in your bedroom... There is a phoneline in there, right?"
Angel nodded.
"Then I'd say we have about two hours....four if she catches sight of herself in any reflective surfaces whilst she's dialing..."
Doyle arched his neck forward with a skill rarely seen outside the giraffe family at the sensation of his vampire lover smiling into the flesh of his chest.
This was followed by a slight sneeze, which sent sensations through Doyle that had no right to be felt by a mortal until at least his twelfth or thirteenth turn of the Karmic Wheel. Fortunately, no Gods were watching at the time, all of them currently busy getting ready to smite various plagues in Tom Hanks' direction if he dared to win ANOTHER Oscar.
Angel sniffled, then sneezed again. "Jeez, Doyle, how much hair have you got down here? I know how Willow must feel when she's bonking with Oz... I'll never make any Nair Witch Project jokes again..."
Doyle mock-scowled. "I'll have you know that twenty years worth of Guinness put the hair on that chest your suckin'. Every follicle is a slap in the face to sobriety".
Angel grinned, lapping at the hair around Doyle's nipples. "I always did love your social conscience..."
Doyle was close to losing what little control was afforded your garden-variety demon in the first place, his vocabulary rapidly shrinking to the words "Oh God..." and "Angel..."
(Angel's next door neighbour put another pillow over his head , preparing for another whole-night long worth of "God's" and "Angels." //Just my luck to move next door to a religious maniac with insomnia...// )
Doyle sent one of his hands on a reconnaisance mission down Angel's boxers.
Initial surveillance reports were promising.
Angel dropped all pretence at concealing his GameFace, picked the slighter man bodily up off the floor, in his arms, and growled a single word.
"Bedroom."
//Very promising//
As they backed each other towards Doyle's bedroom, shucking clothes every which way from Sunday, both of them noticed a trail of peanut butter on the floor that got progressively larger the closer they got to Doyle's bed.
Until...
There, propped up in Doyle's bed, was Xander Lavelle Harris, wearing nothing but his trademark smirk.
"Took you two long enough," Xander said, then produced a half-eaten bag of peanut butter M&M's.
"Want a big red one?"
* * * * * * *
End.
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