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The Adventures of William the Bloody	By : QueenB Category: -Buffy the Vampire Slayer > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 4335 -:- Recommendations : 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.

Chapter List
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- 2
Email: queenboadiceaoftheiceni@yahoo.com
Spoiler Warnings: General from various seasons
Disclaimer: This belongs to Joss Whedon and the usual gang of idi..uh, geniuses.
Pairing: William/?
Warning: Contains m/m slash, nonconsensual sex, BDSM, bondage and intimations of rape
Feedback: Do your worst; it can’t compare to my worst ;)
Thoughts are shown in italics.

The author tapped a pencil on the sheaf of papers on the desk and scowled. “This story isn’t going to write itself.” A squint out the window, another scowl and dark eyes were re-directed towards the page. “Inspiration, inspiration. Oh, for a muse of fire,” Queen sighed.
“One muse comin’ up.” The Cockney drawl came from behind and the fanfic writer swung around to see a very familiar figure standing on the worn carpet. Well, he wasn’t standing exactly. When Queen looked more closely, it was clear the man was hovering maybe an inch or two above the fabric.
“Wh...? Spike?? What are you doing here?”
The vampire gave one of his customary smirks, a gesture as familiar as Lee Majors’s eyebrow lift, and the author felt a flare of annoyance at the worn-out expression. “I’m here to help you with your writing problems. Seems like you’ve got quite a few of them.”
“Or I’ve finally lost it and am imagining TV characters instead of my usual fantasies about traveling in Italy.” The author reached for a cup of iced tea, took a gulp and then blinked rapidly. The Spike hallucination stayed firmly in place. “Crap. You’re still here.”
“In the flesh, so to speak. Now about the writing...”
“Look, I’m not interested in the input of a hackneyed fifth-rate poet. So you can just disappear, Spanky. Why couldn’t I hallucinate Emily Dickinson or Henry Fielding?” Queen groused to no one in particular.
“Hang on, you can’t bring me all the way from out of the void the then send me back just like that,” Spike retorted. Then he paused. “And where do you get off calling me ‘Spanky?’ “
“You know, from the Little Rascals.” At his blank look, the author elaborated. “Angel would be Alfalfa because of his hair, Darla would have been, well, Darla. Drusilla would be Buckwheat because no one understood her when she talked. That would make you, by process of elimination, Spanky, the cute-looking round-faced kid.”
Spike scowled dangerously. “Like fuck I am. You show respect, you hear, or I’ll--”
“You’ll what? You’re a figment, remember?” To prove the point, Queen picked up a pencil and chucked it at Spike’s form. The wooden object flew through the air where his heart should have been and landed on the floor behind him. “So you’ll put up with my calling you Spanky or you can disappear and go back to haunting Angel. It doesn’t matter to me.”
The demon snarled, took a harsh drag from his cigarette and puffed it into Queen’s face. The author ignored the blatant insult and turned with exaggerated indifference back to the pad lying blank and neglected on the table.
Spike plopped down on the couch and looked around. He glanced at some of the titles of Queen’s other works and sneered. “Whether you believe it or not, you need my help. You spend all your free time writing crappy fics about me and, when you’re not writin’ ‘em, you’re thinkin’ up new ways to kill me off. That ain’t healthy.”
“Says Mr. Insane-In-the-School-Basement.”
“I was going nutters from all those vibes being put out from the Hellmouth. What’s your excuse?”
“Watching too much of your ugly, skinny body and listening to Buffy whine about your soooulll,” Queen drawled. “And I don’t write crappy fic about you. You should see some of the other stuff that’s out there with lousy spelling, rotten punctuation and grammatical errors that would shame a third grader. Goodness, makes you wonder if English is some of these writers’ first language.” The author gave a dramatic shudder.
“At least those authors don’t make it a point of bumping me off with each story!” Spike waved his hands at the pile of Queen’s stories, neatly bound in manila envelopes.
The author’s eyes widened in understanding. “Ah, so that’s what’s really bothering you, isn’t it? My stories aren’t lousy. You’re just upset because I don’t bow down at the shrine that is Mr. I-Like-Playing-With-Sexbots. Besides, I don’t kill you off in every story. I’ve done 31 so far and I have you dead in only 13 of them. That’s less than half.”
“That’s still too many.” The Spike specter paced up and down, puffing furiously as he went. Then he crouched down and stared Queen in the eye. “What have you got against me, anyways?”
“Gee, where do I start? You were a minor character at first, just a walk-on, really, and you were fine in that role. You stirred up a little trouble; you shook things up. You kept the main characters from being too complacent. But when you left the scene, things went back to normal and that was the way things should have been.
“Then you started pushing your way center stage even when you brought nothing to the mix. You weren’t the villain any more; you became the comic relief. But then you weren’t evil, funny or decent either. When you were trying to be helpful you did it for money which made you the hired help--or a whore.”
“Now, wait just one bloody minute--”
“Then there was your silly infatuation with Buffy and from a dream sequence, no less! Your rabid, panting fans saw it as cute. I thought it was just pathetic at best. I never saw anything particularly charming and romantic in stalking and vampire nest stakeouts as dates.”
“Look, Angelus was stalking Buffy, too! You think the things I did were bad? Take a look at what he came up with! That thing with Willow’s fish was pretty disgusting. At least I wasn’t leaving dead animals on Buffy’s doorstep.”
“No, you helped destroy Buffy’s relationship with the man she cared about. That’s much worse than dead pets. And if the actions you committed as a soulless beast were no better than his, how is what you did love and what he did evil, sick and twisted, Spanky?”
“He was tryin’ to destroy the world, Queenie. I was helpin’ Buffy and her friends save it,” Spike pointed out triumphantly.
“Because you were chipped, got a kick out of beating up demons and because you got paid for it.” Queen wasn’t about to let Spanky--oops, Spike--get away with anything.
“I didn’t take money later, did I? Put myself on the line over and over again without pay. And what did I get for any of it? Tell me that.”
“You got Buffy’s pussy. Or you were hoping to get it. That’s why you stopped taking cash. You were holding out for a different kind of payment.”
“It wasn’t about payment! I love Buffy! Don’t you get that?”
“Is that why you tried to rape her? Oh, that’s such an avowal of affection, isn’t it? Nothing says ‘I love you’ like forcing yourself on a woman.” Queen glared and an angry light shone in the smoldering dark eyes.
“That was--alright, I’ll admit that’s not the smartest thing I ever did.” Spike ignored Queen’s rolled eyes. “But she forgave me, didn’ she? She told me she loved me. Why can’t you just let it go?”
“Because I hate the message it sent. I hate the idea that women should go all gooey in the knees because so-called bad boys are much better for them than decent, good, kind-hearted men.”
Spike smirked again. Queen was really starting to hate that expression. “What can I say? Lots of women seem to go for that type. Makes ‘em all hot and sticky between the legs, don’ it?”
“I wouldn’t know. But you’re not supposed to be a bad boy. You’re supposed to be this evil thing. Except that you were never truly evil, were you?”
What the bloody hell was Queen going on about? “You’re damn right I was evil! I was the Big Bad!”
“Nuh uh. You weren’t the Big Bad. You were never the Big Bad. That title fell to the Master, Angelus, Mayor Wilkins, Adam, Glory, Willow and the First Evil. You never measured up to any of them.” Adopting a fake accent Queen added, “You’re quasi-evil. You’re semi-evil. You’re the margarine of evil. You’re the Diet Coke of evil. Just one calorie. Not evil enough.”
Spike clenched his jaw in rage and then took another drag of his cigarette. When the plume drifted into Queen’s face this time, the author frowned and scribbled something on the blank sheet. The cigarette disappeared and Spike stared at his empty fingers in shock. “Oi! What did you do with my fag?”
“I got rid of it. I was sick of it on the show, too. We worked like hell to get cigarette ads off American TV. We’re running anti-cigarette ads, for goodness sakes, and there you are, week after week, puffing away like a stinking chimney. It sets such a bad example. It’s disgusting, like everything else about you.”
“You’ve got a real bug up your arse about me, haven’t you?” Spike smirked. “Something about me really pushes your buttons, don’ it, Queenie?”
“Everything about you is cornball and second rate from your hideous, bleached-out hair to your patented ‘Look at me, I’m a screamin’ poofter tryin’ to be a bad arse’ pose. I mean, who are you kidding?”
Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Poofter? You still on that gay kick? I thought you stopped toting that bollocks!”
“Why should I? You play gay so well. All your relationships with women are such fiascoes. I figure you’ve got to be secretly playing for the other side of the fence. Besides, the fics that ship you with Xander or Angel are always so hot.” Queen smiled and got misty-eyed recalling some truly memorable stories. The ones by Mightbeme, Kayla and Jameschick were always top notch.
“Sod that! The whelp and me can’t stand each other.”
Queen shrugged. “Some people would just call that UST.”
“Like hell. And I had Drusilla. Why would I want Peaches?”
“Hmmm. That’s really significant, you know. Peaches sounds exactly like the kind of nickname a gay man would give his boyfriend. Besides, it’s works so well visually: tall brunette and short blond. Or vice versa. Why do you think Xena and Gabrielle was such a great combo?”
Spike gritted his teeth and patted his pockets for another cigarette, stopping when he caught Queen grinning sharkily at his discomfort. “Pe-Angel was crazy about Buffy. That sound gay to you?”
Queen shrugged, unimpressed with the argument. “I believe Angel just has a thing for blonds. Look at his record: Darla, Buffy, Kate, Penn. Why else would he turn a Puritan? Or a fifth-rate poet?”
“I wasn’t fifth--” Spike struggled to rein in his temper. He dearly longed to skin his teeth into Queen’s jugular but the incident with the cigarette had instilled caution. The writer was tapping the pen and eyeing him in a way that made the vampire distinctly nervous. He decided to switch subjects slightly. “Angelus ain’t my Sire, anyhow. That’s Drusilla.”
Queen snorted. “Right. You and I both know Drusilla’s nuts. She couldn’t sire a chicken.”
Privately Spike conceded the point. But he wasn’t about to tell Queen about the nights of wild, passionate vamp sex he’d had with his true Sire as part of the brunette vampire’s rights over his blonde Childe. He had to get the writer back on track. “Look, I came here to help you write decent fic not debate my sexual orientation.”
“Fine. You’re gay. Debate over.”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“I beg to differ. You came to help me make a story where you didn’t die. You have. Now all I need to do is make a few changes. First, let’s get rid of that cheesy accent. I liked the 19th-century Victorian much better.”
“Bloody hell!” Spike’s voice turned smooth with plummy, tony accents and Queen squinted and listened for a moment before nodding in approval.
“Much better. And let’s cut out the swearing. I don’t like it, you don’t need to swear like a truck driver to be interesting and it doesn’t work with that accent, anyway.”
“Now see here! I insist you cease and desist these travesties at once!” The vampire grabbed his throat and glared hatefully much to Queen’s amusement. Spike lunged at Queen only to fall through the author’s body.
The writer ignored him as the vamp floundered and disengaged his transparent form from the author’s chair legs. “Next to go should be those black-on-black Arthur Fonzarelli clothes.”
The well-known black T-shirt and jeans disappeared to be replaced by the tweed outfit he’d been wearing to disguise himself from Mr. Teeth’s henchmen. Spike gaped at his attire in dismay and looked up to see Queen’s pen flying across the paper. The vampire decided to switch tactics. “Please. I implore you. Can we not discuss this like civilized adults?”
“Wow. When you talk like that, you sound so different, so cultured, polite and refined. It’s a vast improvement. Almost enough to make me relent. Almost.” The author’s pen descended to the paper again and the vampire held up his fists threateningly.
“I warn you, Queen. You have not heard the last of William the Bloody. I shall return and, rest assured, there shall be a reck--”
The final words went unsaid. Queen glanced up briefly to note the space was empty. Satisfied, the author muttered while writing, “Chapter One: ‘Sire, My Sire.’ “

TBC
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The Adventures of William the Bloody