Itsy-Bitsy Teeny-Weenie Purple-Puppet Angel Penii
Because I am On Crack and The Puppet!Pr0n bandwagon couldn't pass me by without hopping on just for a little ride...
Written at 4 a.m. Much thanks and love to spikes_heart.
It's a big couch. No, it's a freaking huge couch. You get those when you're the Big Man. You get leather instead of that weird fake stuff that smells funny, and you get imported foam instead of springs. It's high off the ground, so you can look down at the people sunk up to their eyeballs in the squishy chairs opposite. When what you do and say really matters, you get a couch that says, "Someone important parks their ass here." And he's important. Really, he is.
He's just not feeling... himself, today.
He really wants to be on his couch, facing the dark corners with his back to the sun. He needs his couch. It's black and it's soft and it fits his usually-long legs just right and right now, when he wants it like a junkie wants a fix, he can't reach the damned seat to climb up there.
Because he's. Still. A. Puppet.
And? He's pissed off.
Angel stands with fuzzy hands planted on felt hips and glares at the thing. There's got to be a way. Maybe a step-stool? Or what if he jumps? He could grab hold of the edge and pull himself up. Those other puppets seemed pretty strong for their size.
Oh, screw it.
He slumps against the side of his beloved comfort seat and tries to cross his arms. They aren't really built for that - not long enough. Thank God his face is sculpted into a scowl. If he had to sit here smiling like a moron, that would be more punishment than he could take.
It's been a bad day already. The nose thing, he'd thought that might be cute enough to get Nina over the weirdness of breakfast with a puppet. And he'd tried. Really, he'd tried. It was just that while liquid kind of soaked in at the back of his throat, food didn't go anywhere. It
mushed around in his toothless mouth and made interesting squishy noises, but what the hell do you do with it then? Spitting, not one of Nina's favorites. She cut their date short halfway through the cantaloupe and didn't wait around for bacon.
And he thought she liked bacon.
Then they descended on him, like a cloud of mosquitoes just waiting to suck him dry. In the name of science, magic and law, let's fix Angel!
Well, hell, yes. But maybe they could have tried something that oh, he doesn't know, actually worked.
Fred just thought he was such a "cutie wootie!", and kept saying so each time she took skin - sorry, felt - scrapings that stung like hell or probed around with a needle to see if puppets had blood anywhere. Gunn kept messing up his hair and offering him piggy-back rides. And he'd
swear Wesley was trying to hold back a fit of hysterics every time he popped up waving a new book or scroll with a spell that could get him back to normal - human - vampire - size. Somehow he didn't think Wesley was trying all that hard.
Then Harmony took a picture and posted it on the company website before anyone could stop her.
He's so taking away her daily blood delivery for that one. Just so he can see her face, right before he kills her. Slowly. Sque-e-e-e-e-e-zing the life out of that scrawny neck. OK, so, vampire, she doesn't breathe and he can't really choke her, but it'll be so much fun to try before he dusts her with a nail file.
And as for what he's going to do to Spike... his face bends a little as he imagines that. He's going to drop him in a tank of holy water filled with piranhas. Lace his blood with garlic. Put a spell on the Viper that dusts him when he next tries to steal it. But for starters, he's going
to beat the ever-loving shit out of him because it'll feel so very, very good.
Because that bastard, that utter, utter bastard, had lounged on the corner of some beeping metal box in the middle of Fred's science lab, lit up a cigarette, leered at him, and asked oh-so-innocently: "You reckon he's anatomically correct?"
Then Fred had to know. And Wesley had to know because that might affect the spells. And Gunn had to know because he was writing up notes for a possible lawsuit. And Spike had to know because Spike is a bastard.
He'd tried to be discreet about it - turning around and just making a quick check with a hand down the front of his pants - so what, big deal that he hadn't thought to look before! - and telling them. But oh, no, that wouldn't do. They needed proof. Fred even had a camera out. After the experience with Harmony, he almost ripped it from her hands and stomped on it.
And while he was occupied with that, Spike - who is, repeat, a bastard - sneaked up behind him and pantsed him!
It's bad enough to be a puppet. It's worse to be a puppet with your pants around your ankles, and your shirt almost but not quite entirely long enough to cover, oh, anything. And it's worst of all to find you have a teeny-tiny puppet penis made of red and purple felt dangling between ridiculously skinny bow-legs.
God, he thought Spike would never stop laughing.
Or Harmony (who grabbed Fred's camera and took another picture, then disappeared with it. Yes, she's going to die all over again.)
The ultimate, though, was discovering he wasn't bendy enough to lean over and drag his pants back up around his waist! He'd roared and taken off after Spike - Harmony - anyone - tripped, and fallen flat on his face. Now he was flashing the world with a neatly divided puppet ass, and he was just about sure the day couldn't get any worse.
Until Wesley finally took pity on him and helped him up and they discovered two things:
One, he'd knocked his nose off. That wasn't so bad. They found it under Fred's computer chair.
But two - and this was the baddest of the worst of the bad - his cock had fallen off. And his tiny little fuzzy balls.
Rolled away to God knows where.
Those had to be detachable, too?
And they still hadn't found them. After an hour's searching for his private bits, Angel almost split himself in two yanking his pants to his waist and storming up to his suite. Fred was almost crying - with laughter or upset, he didn't know and doesn't care - Wesley and Gunn
were wielding brooms - and Spike was still collapsed on the floor, howling so loudly that he'd frightened the lab rats.
There's humiliation. He can handle that. Then there's sitting on the floor by a couch you can't climb into, staring morosely at the slack way your pants fall between your legs while ten floors down, someone's sweeping underneath a computer stand looking for your cock.
Yeah. Really bad day.
Just about the only thing that could make it worse would be -
And right there it is. His private elevator shaft, humming open. A blast of cigarette smoke-smell wafting out, along with a light baritone, singing:
"It's not that easy being felt,
Endin' up with bugger all below the belt
When you think you could be having you a yank,
Or something like sucking off yourself..."
Spike pauses to put his smoke out in the fichus plant by the elevator doors. "Pity you didn't stop to think about that before you took a header, mate. Could have detached yourself and had a fine one-man blow job. Would've made you the envy of the free world, that." He frowns. "Though I wonder if you'd feel anything when it's not attached to you, like. Funny it didn't hurt having your willy jerked off like that. Reckon it's most men's worst nightmare."
Angel doesn't turn around. "Spike..."
"What? Oh, yeah, the usual threats. You've got three seconds to get out before I stake you - something like that? I'd bloody like to see you reach high enough." He hears the click and snap of a Zippo. "And yeah, I remember, no smoking in the suite. How d'you plan to stop me? Bite my kneecaps off?"
Spike exhales, sounding disgusted. "No appreciation of the classics, you. And here I'm actually trying to be nice for once. Coming up here to console you over the one hundred percent loss of your manhood. Again."
"Don't tell me Darla didn't have nuts and cock both in her pretty little hands. Buffy, too, come to that." Deep inhale. "And... well, what do you know? Me, too."
Angel twists around as fast as felt can scoot and stares. At Spike. Who's holding a lit cigarette in one hand and dangling a detached prick between two fingers. "Got you by the short and curlies - sorry, lint and woolies now, don't I?"
"You - my - they - it -" Angel sputters. He scrambles to his feet. "Give that back!"
"Ah-ah-ah." Spike skips back a couple of steps, lofting the tiny dong above his head. "Say please. Say pretty please. Thought you lot were all about teaching good manners."
"I'm more about chewing off your ankles if you -"
"Don't you mean gumming off my ankles, pet?" Spike waves Angel's cock back and forth like a metronome. "Heard about your little breakfast performance. Now, putting a werewolf off her meat, there's an accomplishment."
He can't believe he's saying this, but... "Spike," Angel growls, "Give me my dick back. Now. And I'll... let you live."
And Spike laughs! "If that's not generous!" He holds his cigarette closer to the felt. "Not very realistic looking, is it? No veins or piss-hole or ought, just this little cynlinder..."
"I'll get you daily blood delivery," Angel begs. "You can have Harmony's, because I'm going to kill her." And then you. Except I'm not telling you that part. Yet.
"Pet, only thing you might be able to kill right now is a person's good mood."
"I kicked your ass."
"Only 'coz you took me by surprise." Spike leans forward and ruffles his hair good and hard. "Cute wee puppet man that you are!"
Angel bites him. Unfortunately, he forgets to vamp out, first. So the end result is Spike going into a giggling fit, hopping on one foot, and almost losing Angel's pecker in the fichus. "God, you'll be the death of me," he chortles, rotating his ankle. "That tickled!"
Angel tries to jump up high enough to reach. "Spike, give it!"
"Not on your unlife, love! I'm having way, way too much fun with this."
Defeated, Angel backs away. "They'll make you hand it over."
"And won't that be fun, too?" Spike adopts a Wesley-like stance. "If you would be so kind, Spike, as to return Angel's penis to him?"
And he'll say it, just like that, too. Angel covers his face with four fuzzy fingers and groans. He's got to get himself together before anyone finds out about this. "What's it going to take, Spike?" he grits out. "Call it a wild guess, but you want something in exchange for this,
"Me?" Spike splays his hand out over his chest, playing injured. "And here I'm the Good Samaritan! I could have just left them down there underneath the rat maze with your balls, you know, and good luck to anyone else trying to find them."
His - Angel's mouth pops over. "You have those too?"
Spike's grin is pure evil. He puts his hands in his pockets, depositing the tiny cock in one of them, and brings both fists out. "Right or left, love?"
"Spike, for God's sake!"
"Right, pet," Spike repeats with infinite patience. "Or left? Get it right and you win the prize. Get it wrong, and I go see how they work at playing Ping-Pong with."
Kill. Kill kill kill kill kill!
But he's not going to give, Angel can tell that, not until he's had his fun. So. Right or left? Knowing this bastard? Angel narrows his eyes. "Both."
"Now that," Spike says, unfolding his hands to display a tiny bit of pink fuzz on either palm, "was inspired."
"So give already!"
"Mmmm." The testicles, too, are subjected to scrutiny. "Nothing like the real thing, I must say. You had a bikini wax or something, or does the thatch just not translate over?" He pokes at one of them. "Feels like a bloody cotton swab. Dab of Velcro and that's it for texture. You need a hot glue gun or a needle and thread or these'll be off again in a second."
"They lasted all day before -"
"Yeah, I remember that," Spike smirks. "Remember quite a bit of that, matter of fact." He tosses the balls up and down. "Here, watch this!"
Angel isn't sure if puppets can be sick. But as he watches Spike juggle his genitalia, he's pretty sure he's about to find out.
"I'll give them back," Spike says, watching the fuzzy organs track through the air, "on one condition."
He's desperate. If one of those should happen to fall and it gets lost and he has to have help finding it - "Name it," he grinds out. "Whatever you want."
"I get to stick them back on."
And it's very good Angel doesn't have a tongue, because he might choke on it. "You what?"
"I get to slap the little buggers back into place." Spike leers at him. "What? Time was, you used to fancy that sort of thing."
"You'll put them on upside down and backwards!"
"Would I do that?"
"Right, so, maybe I would," Spike shrugs. "But you've guessed now, so there's no fun in that. I'll tuck them on right and proper. And you've only got to do one other thing for me."
"I am not loaning you the Viper -"
"Nothing to do with the car, pet." Spike neatly catches pecker and balls in one hand. "I name my favor when the time comes."
Angel hesitates. This could be bad. This could be really, really bad.
"Say yes, or I take a walk over to the nearest loo and send these down the drain," Spike warns. Angel knows he'd do it. And the thought of his parts after being down in the... with the...
"All right, all right!"
"There's a lad." Spike grins. He shuts his eyes and sighs happily. "Been waiting a hundred years to tell you this. Never got the chance when you were Angelus proper."
He opens his eyes, and they glitter. "Drop 'em and spread 'em, pet. Now."
Oh, God. Can puppets blush? His cheeks are on fire.
Slowly, slowly, Angel undoes the E-Z snap on his pants. They fall off his skinny legs and puddle on the floor. Spike approaches, slinking like a panther, with those damned organs in his left hand. "Come on, then," he breathes. "Open wide, Ken-doll. What've you got to be ashamed of? Don't I hold your life -" he squeezes - "in my hands, here?"
Ashamed of? Nothing. And everything. It just about costs him everything he has, but Angel moves his knees apart, exposing a blank surface marked only with tiny dots of Velcro where... things... are supposed to go.
"Right, then." Spike kneels before him. "First the two veg..." He prods them back into place.
An odd sort of thrill runs up Angel's plastifoam spine. He freezes. No way, couldn't be. Just good to see them where they belong again, that's all.
"And then the meat, eh?" Spike runs the soft felt through his fingers. There's that chill again. No, no, no! It's just... seeing that. It's horror. Yeah.
He doesn't feel anything like a spasm of pleasure as those slim, clever fingers maneuver him into place and press down, hard. Nor as they trail down the length of the reattached cock.
And it is not getting bigger. It's staying the same size, thank you. Just exactly the same size and... length... and... oh, God, he's touching it again. One finger, teasing the tip.
Spike seems mesmerized. "Hate you, Angel," he says abruptly. "Hate you with the passion of a thousand fiery suns, I do."
"Um. Yeah," Angel chokes out. This is not happening. It's a dream, that's it. He got knocked out when that beam of light hit him and none of this has actually been real...
And Spike is not softly jacking him, careful not to budge the Velcro. "Always hated you," he muses. "But this... this, I loved. Against me, all dressed up, on me, naked. In my mouth or my arse. And you knew it, didn't you?"
The blond's started stroking himself with his free hand. Angel can see the bulge through his jeans. "Never did let me play, though, did you? I have to wait until you're a sodding toy to have my turn."
He grips hard enough to hurt, and squeezes. His face goes lean and cold. "Right. Here's my part of the deal. And you swear on whatever you hold holy that you keep your end of it, or I tear this off again and we see what that feels like now, eh?"
One nail teases his length, and Angel gasps. He nods, frantically. "Anything." Just don't stop, don't stop, and for the love of mercy don't take off with it!
"When you're feeling more yourself again, I get to play. And I mean play grown-up games, little puppet man." Those clever fingers are working magic. "What I say, when I say it, and how I say it - that's how it goes. I snap my fingers, you drop everything - even if you're in a
damned meeting - and you come to me. Understood?"
Angel's doing better than reasonable expectations to understand English right now, but he nods. Anything. Just finish. He doesn't care what happens after that. Just let him get out the orgasm building from the base of his spine and the pit of his stomach, because it's been so
Spike grins at him, with no warmth. "Good. Because for once in our relationship, Angel, it's gonna be about me. Not you. Me." He twists hard and Angel comes, feather-soft strands of silk shooting from him like dandelion seeds. Spike looks at them curiously, draped
over his hands. "Sewing thread," he muses. "You're your own bloody factory."
He tosses them at Angel, where they flutter down to land on his face, his chest. "I'll just go let them know that the lost has been found, will I? Then they can stop looking for your knackers and get on looking for a cure."
Turning, he leaves the puppet-man there, spread out and still gasping for air it doesn't need. "And you remember what I said, mind," his voice floats back. "What I say. When I say it. Bet if you think hard you'll recall a few things I might have in mind."
Angel swallows hard. He does. And he feels himself starting to rise and fill again.
Spike never looks back. "Hate you, Angel. But I'll be waiting for you."
"Yeah," Angel mutters as the elevator doors. "Hate you too."
But... he'll be waiting.
And maybe it's not such a bad day after all.
| Fiction Index | Home Page | Back |