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Angel strode down the to front door and let himself out. The night air was heavy with the scent of flowers, imminent rain squashing their essence out like blood, and he paused breathing it in, stopping his tears with the force of his will.
He glanced to the side path, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to sit in the quiet green of Spike's courtyard, under the old trees, where everything had once held promise.
He pushed quietly in and leant on the door, sighing with contentment at the intensely welcoming feel of the old apartment.
Suddenly, he tensed and looked out into the dark.
He could only see the hair; the rest blended into the darkness, but then the silent, pale face lifted to his.
They stared at each other for a long time, and then Spike flicked a cigarette to the ground, where it glowed red for a moment, a small arc of heat in the darkness. He stood up, walking slowly across the old flagstones into the hot room.
When he reached Angel, there was no need for talk. Talk only seemed to pain them, so they found another, better use for lonely mouths.
Incredulous, Angel could taste salt tears on Spike's face too, and he ate hungrily at them, as if they said all the things that Spike could not say, as if he could read the mystery of this moment in their damp trails. He wondered if Spike could taste the tears in his heart. It seemed to him that he'd been drowning in tears since he'd last been in Spike's arms.
He'd never kissed anyone with such abandon. It almost hurt.
Deciding at last to speak his truth in this dark, verdant confessional, Angel tipped his head back and closed his eyes. 'I thought I was protecting you- from me. But I was running away- from us.'
'Say it again.'
'Us. Say it again.'
Angel smiled. 'Us.'
Spike seemed to let some great tension flood out of his body, and he moved away, going to the window. He leant on one side, staring out through the patio doors.
He held out his hand, knowing that Angel would come to him. He pulled him in tight, so the heavy body leant on him. 'I couldn't lie to you- hurt you. Not in this house. Didn't let me. I got all tied up inside till it hurt.' His voice was ragged and Angel could tell he'd been crying a long time. He squeezed him closer and Spike whispered, 'Say it again.'
Angel smiled and turned the word into a kiss.
They stayed for a long time, leaning against each other, their bodies speaking in their own silent language: skin reacquainting itself with skin, sweat mingling and become one fluid, softness hardening, and mouths whispering love with touch and taste and gentle exploration.
The intense pressure of the imminent storm cocooned them in a physical space that was all warm, soft flesh: the build-up of electricity in the air giving their flesh this fleeting illusion of life.
Angel slid his hands up inside Spike's shirt onto his bony spine and began to run them up and down, like a lover initiating sex, like a mother giving comfort. Spike responded, also caught between his two roles: lover and child. When their mouths came together once more, though, they pulled instantly away and stared, puzzled into each other's eyes. They both sensed that those old feelings existed no more. Whatever imbalance there had been between them was over. Equally vulnerable, equally scared, they brought their mouths softly together again, one falling from a great height of steel and chrome, one rising from a place of earth and despair, and they met, tongues clashing, need rising hot between them, turning and twisting in each other's arms, moving through the apartment in a dance of desire that left them both breathing yet breathless.
Angel wondered where the painful gut-wrenching need to strip Spike had gone. Then he realised it was still there, only it had gone deeper, just as he wanted to. No longer satisfied with the thought of sucking Spike or feeling that beautiful mouth around his hardness, he wanted to ease into his core, put his body inside Spike's, share his flesh and not retrieve it when the sharing was done.
He took Spike's hand and squeezed his fingers gently, knowing he did not have to speak of these things: that such passion and need could stay unspoken and still be deafening between them.
Spike sighed deeply and whispered, 'Can you wait, Luv? I need to….' He frowned and flicked his eyes up.
Angel smiled and pulled him close once more, his body trembling with the feel of something so innately desirable in his arms. 'Sure. I'll wait here.'
A tiny expression of disappointment crossed Spike's face, and Angel immediately murmured, 'I've been in hell for you, Spike. Guess one party can't be worse.'
Spike smiled seductively. 'I like having power over you.'
Angel's eyes dilated, and he snatched Spike to him hard. 'Use it.'
They kissed again, their bodies now heavy and aching for release, mouths stimulating flesh they did not even touch as if, magical, they had power over all flesh.
Spike sucked in his breath, tasted Angel's saliva one more time, and then took his hand, leading him toward the door.
Angel still waited like a supplicant, but now Spike was his lover, and it was just a game between them: glances understood, small touches, public, but speaking privately of their intense desire.
It didn't take long for the party to break up on their return, the storm's approach oppressing everyone.
Spike did his usual rounds of the house, checking locks, windows, power, but this time, his fingers were entangled with Angel's, so they made slow progress, kissing through the empty spaces, filling them with the sound of wet flesh on wet flesh, soft moans of pleasure and stifled laughter of anticipation.
Finally, they ducked under the over-handing branches and entered their private place, where they were to be private no longer: where they were to expose their inner beings to the other- flesh and feelings, equally opened and shared.
For the first time, they undressed slowly enough to enjoy the exquisite sensation of revealing flesh, to feel arousal reaching a peak from the merest glimpse of rounded muscle, flat chest, or a nest of shocking darkness against flawless skin.
Utterly heedless of themselves as individuals, they crawled onto the bed, only wanting to immerse in the other: taste, sound, and feel.
So many places gave them pleasure, and they arched and twisted, crying softly in delight as they brought their flesh to life: hands roaming, seeking, finding.
Afraid he would come too soon, Angel had to roll away after a while, begging for a respite from Spike's mouth and Spike's flesh and Spike's soft, erotic intoning of his need. Parted for the time it took him blink, Spike felt Angel's absence like death and moaned in greedy need when, after that small blink, Angel came back, cursing his stupidity, now begging for more of Spike's mouth, now desperate for more of Spike flesh and more of that whispering of need that frazzled like a storm in his balls and made the bed damp with his sticky release.
Spike spread himself like water over the soft covers, and Angel dove into him, bathing in his flesh. This time, the turning was so very natural, neither knew who precipitated it: Angel murmuring his desires or Spike whispering his need. He turned and spread languorously, lifting his thigh.
Angel's hand found him first, just the edge of one strong palm pressing into the crack, testing out the possibilities and finding them good. With a groan of surprised desire, he lay alongside the intriguing flesh and explored with his fingers, licking them and trailing them over the place where flesh was sucked in and disappeared to the tantalizing inner mystery that was Spike.
It was his path to reach the inner core, to discover himself by finding them. Us. With only the slightest hesitation, he bent his face and rewet the trails with his tongue. All control deserted him when Spike arched and cried out with as much pleasure as he had when more conventional places had been explored. He mouthed into the indentation as if trying to bob for apples: lips wide, pushing hard. A finger slipped in without thought, so natural, opening Spike up, exposing soft, untouched walls for his lips.
Everything was so wet and slippery: Spike inside, Angel outside. His shapely, curving, mushroom-shaped head leaked, as if weeping with sorrow for being excluded from such fun.
With a breath of anticipation, Angel pushed into the pink slickness, every inch of the long journey drawing out intense pleasure from his engorged, throbbing shaft.
At exactly the moment when they were joined as fully as was physically possible, an ear-splitting crack rent the air, and a torrent of rain crashed through the green canopy, resounding dully on the flagstones.
The intense, claustrophobic, spell-like languor of their lovemaking cracked apart just as fiercely. The whole room was illuminated by the harsh blue-white light of sheet lightning, and Angel could hide no longer from the realisation of what they were doing. He hung suspended over Spike's arse. He was deep in Spike's arse.
The thought spiralled his thoughts chaotically.
Spike turned, equal amazement in his eyes, and then they were plunged into blackness as the power cut off.
The mood was entirely shattered. Angel hovered, afraid to stay in, afraid to pull out. Either option seemed unthinkable.
Suddenly, Spike turned his head once more, and in the low, ambient light, Angel saw a glint of something in Spike's eyes. In a slow, lazy drawl, Spike said, amused, 'So, Angel. How's the faggoty crap for you then?' He jerked up his hips, grinding Angel into him fully.
A breath of indecision, then Angel looked down. He was in Spike's arse.
He groaned with delight, and they commenced fucking with a similar joy and abandon they'd always brought to fighting each other.
Spike arched and laughed, the sound of deep satisfaction, drowned by another crack of thunder. The flash was closer, as if the storm zeroed in on their intensity, seeking their power to fuel its own.
Angel pounded into flesh so hard and tight that he felt even his nipples ache from the pleasure, his balls and cock just a flood of intense, erotic stimulation.
He levered over Spike as if exercising on top of him, his sweat dripping into the blond strands, his cock and balls making sloppy, slapping sounds which merged with gushing drainpipes outside.
He sensed the start of release as clearly as if he'd taken a first step up a long staircase, and he climbed slowly, step by step, the tempo of his fucking increasing until he appeared on fast-forward, a rapid blur of hips jack-knifing into the tight receptacle, and through it all, Spike writhed and begged for more, flesh impervious to the stretch and pain, demon heart revelling in the throb and split.
Angel came with a flood of release so powerful he feared he'd lose something more than just sperm. His whole body went into a rigid spasm as he pumped.
He flung back his head, felt a sensation so familiar it chilled his heart and howled out that it was his soul flooding out on the milky spill.
He tore out of the wet hole and flung out of the apartment into the rain, falling for the third time in his life in rain-soaked, post-orgasmic terror: Buffy, Darla, and now Spike….
A split of lightning, everything illuminated, nowhere to hide… and then he knew. For the first time, his spill was safe - where it belonged - where it had no potency to bring forth evil. He had come, but he had not destroyed the world.
He sensed a presence behind him and levered off the wet ground, soaking, his skin glistening in the green light. He held out his hand, and Spike came to him.
Angel embraced him, running his hands over his back in wonder, then bent to kiss him urgently, the long hour he had spent pounding into Spike's back, depriving him of this intense pleasure.
The thought of their sex drew his thoughts downward, and his hands roamed over Spike's hard cheeks as they kissed. Then he parted them, fingers dipping and seeking.
Angel's eyes suddenly dilated, and he murmured, 'Fuck, yeah….'
All his fingers fitted into the stretched hole, and he played sensuously with Spike, pulling him apart, pressing in, teasing around and around the sensitised walls.
Gradually, he eased Spike back against a trellis, fragrant flowers crushed by their bodies.
Very slowly, keeping his eyes lifted to Spike's, he sank to his knees, the torrent of water from the sky draining into his eyes and making him blink.
With great concentration, he bobbed to catch Spike's penis in his mouth, trying to catch its stiff wavering between his lips. When he succeeded, he swirled it around on his tongue, relishing the sweet, salty flavour of his fluid.
A sheet of blue-white in the sky, and he opened his throat to the long hardness, plunging down onto Spike, moaning at his jerk of pleasure.
With a jolt of surprise, his brain registered that the overpowering scent was jasmine, and he laughed around the shaft he pleasured, thinking of bliss and the worship of false gods. He pulled his god down to him and kissed him with the intensity of a convert, fisting him skilfully.
Spike rose up on his knees, dug his fingers into Angel's shoulders, and offered some more fluid to the wet night, his sperm splashing down over Angel's wrist, pale and thick compared to the rain that soaked his skin.
With a whimper of pleasure, Spike laid his forehead down to the wet earth and said distinctly, 'Fucking hell.'
Angel lay back and spread-eagled himself to the storm, the rain drumming on his tight belly, making a martial accompaniment to the softer notes of rain-heavy leaves and flooding pond.
He opened his mouth to catch the rain but caught Spike's mouth instead, and then his rain was second-hand, dripping off Spike to land on him. He opened his mouth and caught it delightedly then pulled Spike closer and licked it off, first-hand.
Spike lay on top of Angel; their spent cocks nestled snugly together. They'd dried each other off in front of a fire, the only illumination now in the room, and then retreated to the bed to watch the storm. It had passed now; the air was cool and full of the smell of the ocean.
'I thought you'd lost your soul.' The voice was shocking after so much silence, and Angel lifted his head slightly, hearing the deep emotion in Spike's voice.
'I don't know why I didn't. What I felt was so much more than I felt with Buffy.'
Spike lifted his head and stared at Angel for a moment, then lowered it back down onto the broad, smooth pillow of skin. 'You were happy…?'
Angel smiled and corrected him softly, kissing into his hair. 'You made me happy. You make me happy.'
Spike smiled softly, although he knew Angel would not see it. He said deceptively casually, 'What time do you have to leave?'
Angel pouted like a school kid reminded that it was Sunday night and he hadn't done his homework. He murmured petulantly, 'I don't want to go back.'
Spike chuckled. 'Well… we've already established that you can't wear my clothes, so unless you wanna live naked with me, you'd better go back an' get yours. Course, I wouldn't be complaining….'
Angel held him off, and they stared at each other for a long time, until with a small catch in his voice, Angel said, 'Live here, with you?'
Spike folded his arms and propped his chin on them. 'You're still working for them, Angel. So are Wes and the others. Who's gonna care where you live?' He grinned shyly and said pointedly, 'Whenever you looked up- I'd be there. Whenever I thought about you- you'd be there….'
Angel lay back staring at the old plaster of the ceiling, hearing the echoes of the spell in Spike's seductive voice.
He stared around the old apartment, lit only by the flickering flames of the fire and pictured himself living there, his respite from the evil of the day.
Suddenly, he began to laugh, and Spike was juddered off to the side. He sat up and punched him softly. 'What?'
Angel shook his head but continued laughing. 'I just got why I didn't lose my soul inside you. That damn place: Wolfram and Hart. How can I attain perfect happiness knowing that I work there?'
'And that's funny?'
Angel nodded wildly, his eyes dilated. 'They've saved my soul, Spike. We've just turned Wolfram and Hart into a soul-saving business.'
Spike climbed back on the large body, slowly entwining like a pale vine around Angel's limbs. 'Go to sleep, Pet; you're over-wrought.'
Suddenly, Angel rolled them, levering over the supple, welcoming body, his intent obvious. 'Nah, let's make them work for a living again….'
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