Chapter 3 - Angel's Night

Angel hears Spike’s words, puzzled. Why the frigg is the idiot worried about me going to hell?

 He has the suspicion that there’s been more going on behind the intense blue eyes than he’s realised.

He gives Spike another small shake, just because he can, and because he doesn’t have time for this. ‘I’m not going to hell. What the hell are you talking about? You’re not going to hell either!’

Spike tries to push him off, but Angel just leans harder.

‘Wesley said!  He said that hell could only hurt as much as you could stand it!’

‘And… duh! I was there! That’s why we’re sending Illyria….’


‘She’s going to take Gunn’s place. Hell won’t even chip her blue nails, I’m thinking.’

‘She’d never agree to that!’

‘Wesley says she will.’



‘I don’t know!

Angel kisses him again, just to see if that helps his confusion. It seems to. It doesn’t help his much though, and he pulls off.  He opens his mouth and frees words that lie shallow in his throat, not releasing those that are buried deeper—where they’re safe.

‘Let’s do this thing, Spike. You want it; I want it. Let’s do it, get it over with and get on with saving the frigging world. I’m too distracted like this!’

‘Get it over with.’

Once he’s committed to only using words that won’t hurt him to expose, he can’t go back and use the other ones he has in his heart. 

He turns away, embarrassed that he’s implied this much—that he’s implied he’s been thinking about having sex with Spike. He’s fairly sure his childe’s been thinking the same thing… but you never know with Spike exactly what he is thinking.

He turns back and puts a hand on Spike’s T-shirt. ‘Now or never, Spike. Make your mind up.’

‘Now or never.’

‘Stop repeating what I say! Do you want this thing or not?’


You kissed me first, Spike! What was that?’

Spike nods thoughtfully, and Angel relaxes fractionally. Although people never seen to notice, he’s actually not good at talking about feelings.

He narrows his eyes and begins to unbutton his shirt. ‘I’m going for a shower. If you’re there when I come out, so be it.’

‘If I’m not?’

Angel laughs. ‘Don’t forget, I can read you now, Spike. I know exactly what you are thinking! You want this as much as I do.’

Spike nods and smiles. ‘Yeah. I forgot you can read me.’

Angel turns and strides across to his apartment.  He’s handled it well—this situation. It has been awkward between them, and this will clear the air. He sometimes wonders if Spike ever thinks about the past, wonders if he ever thinks about the things Angelus promised him…obliquely…. Wonders if he feels bitter that those promises were not fulfilled.

He showers and steps out, rubbing his hair. Spike is sitting on the edge of the bed, biting a nail.  Angel steps past him and walks over to the window to pull the drapes. No need to have too much illumination on this.

‘Get undressed.’

Spike obeys silently.  Angel watches as the T-shirt falls to the ground, watches as the slim jeans tumble off to join them.

Spike stands naked, watching him.

Angel comes forward and throws the towel over the bed.  He takes Spike’s arm and pulls him closer.

Spike is unresisting, but there’s no reciprocation there either.  Angel pushes Spike back onto the bed, and slides over him, familiarity with the act of fucking taking over. It’s been a while, but he’s not forgotten.  Only….

He jerks his eyes down, utterly thrown when he discovers it’s all totally different. The old routine—stroke until wet then enter—doesn’t work. But it’s not all bad—this difference. He examines Spike for a while, pleased when stroking seems to have an interesting effect on him, too.

But he’s not in this for foreplay. He wants it over with. He wants to stop being obsessed with Spike, having this irritating person on his mind when he should be concentrating on Gunn or Illyria or Lindsey or Hamilton or even the apocalypse that’s about to overtake them.

He turns Spike over and pushes up one of his legs.  He’s never done this, but he’s thought about it once or twice over the centuries.  It always seemed a good way to cock a snoot at God, and Angelus was always looking for opportunities to do that. He kinda became a nun man instead.

It’s not that different.

Pushing in is pushing in.

He has to push hard, but eventually he’s through.

He’s surprised how good it feels. Maybe it’s because he’s only had Eve in the last two years. That depressing thought fills him with enough repressed need to swell some more, and with that swelling comes the irresistible need to move. He begins to pump into the tight receptacle, and it’s very, very good—the perfect position to get a really good angle and thrust.

He knows it won’t take long—it’s been too long—and slides his hand under the slim body to give Spike some relief as well.

Spike is soft, which kinda throws him—he didn’t think you could do this and be soft.  Not all that concerned, he just increases the speed of his thrusts, and pulls a few times on the soft penis.

Before he can control it, a huge orgasm surges from his balls. This is nothing like the swift, surgical hand jobs he’s made do with for two years. It’s intense, makes his toes twitch, makes him cry out as he fills Spike.

Only then does he look down, and for the first time a wave of total confusion hits him. He’s pumping his sperm into Spike! It’s more bizarre than sucking his blood out.

With a grunt of complete satisfaction, he rolls off to one side, panting.

Spike straightens his legs then curls onto his side facing the window.  Angel stretches and nods. ‘I should have done that a long time ago.  It would have made things simpler between us.’

He turns his head when Spike doesn’t reply. He wonders if he should offer to do something… more.  This isn’t unfamiliar either, often lying beside Darla for hours while she finished off.

He feels sleep overtaking him—a pleasant post-orgasmic weariness that he can’t resist.  Something nags his memory, and before he can bring it to the surface and dismiss it as irrelevant, he turns onto his side, wraps his arm over Spike, and tucks him tightly into his concave shape.

Memory stops nagging at him, and feeling more content than he has since the body tucked and held was a great deal smaller and softer, he falls into a deep, restful sleep.

Angel wakes with the innate awareness that only a few hours have passed.  He’s incredibly comfortable, and it takes a moment to realise that Spike is still tucked against him. 

For a while, he just lies there, enjoying this more than he enjoyed the orgasm.

What would it be like to do this every day? Waking with Spike in bed with him…. He thinks he could get very used to it.

The bed stinks of them—an intense masculine smell of cum and sweat. Smiling, he buries his nose into the hollow of the sleep warm neck, and the movement wakes Spike.

Angel turns him over onto his back and studies him.

Surprised by his arousal from this totally sober, daytime revision, he runs his hand lightly over Spike’s chest.  The flatness intrigues him. He’s always been a breast man, but now he finds this flat muscle as attractive as he finds his own chest—pleasing that it’s broad and smooth and strong.  He chuckles and bends to Spike’s nipple, amused that it’s so small and insignificant.  He nibbles it then withdraws sharply when there’s a small hiss.

It’s the first sound Spike’s made since coming into the room, the contrast with the silence making him notice this for the first time. With a stab of excitement, he nibbles again, harder. The hiss is repeated, and this time hands clasp his head, pulling him down hard. 

Angel groans and slides lower in the bed, too aroused now to be satisfied with nipples. 

Spike’s hard.

Holding the hardness, Angel suddenly feels cheated that he didn’t enjoy this the first time.  It’s utterly intriguing, rising to his touch. For the first time in a lifetime of fucking, he can actually see arousal manifest.

He laughs like he did the first time he saw a mechanical toy and plays just as inquisitively with this new wonder.

He glances up at Spike with lowered lids then flicks his tongue out suggestively.  The promise implicit in the pink wetness elicits a soft, ‘Oh, yeah.’

With a surge of arousal so intense that he has to concentrate not to release, he lowers his mouth to the head of Spike’s cock and repeats the small flick of his tongue.  ‘Fuck, Angel, yeah….’ Spike arches and holds himself quivering with pleasure like a bow under pressure.

The use of his name fires Angel’s belly, and he envelopes the cock with his mouth. It’s so different—not something you can know until you try.  So many women, so many eager mouths on him, but not one, not one really got it right. Not like this. He feels its delight in being mouthed as if Spike’s cock is independent from the rest of the body and talking to him in its own unique language—a language of weeping, twitching and pulsing.

The sounds of pleasure from up top have stopped, and Angel wants them back. Now he’s heard them, he doesn’t ever want to fuck Spike without them.

He lets the cock drop from his mouth and sucks in the balls instead. 

Spike’s hands shoot out to grip something—anything—and he begins to swear.  Angel tongues the balls apart in their sac, massaging each one in turn, bathing the soft skin with saliva.  He lets them drop slowly from his mouth so they fall pendulous and heavy.

He’s not ready to return to the cock yet and moves lower, flattening himself on the bed.  Before he can push Spike’s legs up, they’re lifted voluntarily. 

The smell of sex is intoxicating, and it’s… his…. Part of his body is still inside Spike!

Darting his tongue out to explore gets the most satisfied sound yet.  There’s a faint trace of blood, and he frowns at this, remembering Spike’s silence.

Spike’s cheeks part with no resistance, and Angel tongue bathes him, slopping wetly over the tight hole.  It’s fun listening to the obscene accompaniment. 

When he pulls his mouth away, everything is glistening, a hint of the pink inside walls moist and enticing.  Like a red rag to a bull, the trace of fleshy pink triggers masculine need. Rising up onto his knees, he pushes his cock against the enticement. 

He feels a shudder go through Spike and takes it as pleasure, but just before he pushes in, he looks up to see eyes tightly closed and teeth gritted.

He frowns. He wants eager Spike back. 

Hesitantly, he pushes Spike’s knees wider apart and leans over him. He bends down and takes one nipple in his mouth.  As he does, he glances up.  When he sees surprise and pleasure on Spike’s face, he eases his little finger into the wet hole.

‘OH! Fuck!’ Spike arches and drags Angel’s head over to his other nipple.

Things go a little crazy after that. Angel can’t work out the sequence of events. They roll and bite and find places that feel untouched for centuries. Then he’s on top again; Spike lies looking up at him, and very slowly, Angel pushes against Spike’s body for entry.  As soon as he feels it opening though, he eases off and bites a nipple again. This time, Spike laughs and opens his legs wider. ‘You bugger.’

Incredulous, Angel feels Spike’s strong legs wrap around his back, so he pushes again, the head slipping into place.  This time he waits.  He wants to bend and kiss Spike, but it’s too intimate.  As soon as Spike looks comfortable, he pulls out again.

Spike’s eyes widen in outrage, and there’s a lot of rolling and biting and some considerable amount of blood before they’re back: Spike supine and waiting beneath him.

This time, he’s not so gentle, and he pushes the head right in.  Spike groans, and it’s a sound of pure pleasure.  He rises up and bites Angel’s nipple hard, then licks some blood off his chest.

Angel groans too, and as he leans down to give Spike more access to his nipples, he embeds fully.

Spike gasps, and they’re both still for some time, Angel staring down in surprise.  He tries to work out where the tip of his cock is; it feels as if it’s under Spike’s belly button.  He pulls right out and sits back on his heels.

Spike moans and twists around, fingering Angel’s pulsing red flesh.  Angel cries out and leans back on his hands. Spike’s touch is incredibly erotic.

He thinks he can’t hold out any longer and wants to let his orgasm rip, but very pointedly, Spike straddles him.  Before Angel can prevent it, Spike lowers.

Spike tips his head back, his neck stretched, as if making room for the vast object easing into his body.  Angel puts a hand up and brings his face back to horizontal; he wants to watch the expression.

Spike stares deeply into the dark eyes and does not drop his gaze as he begins to raise and lower on Angel’s stiffness, pleasuring himself on it.

There’s something so wanton in this look that Angel cries out and fastens onto Spike’s neck, lightly drawing blood with his human teeth.  He holds Spike tightly around the waist and goes with the rhythm of the lifting and lowering. 

‘Fuck, that’s good, Spike.’

The words shock the silence.  Spike hesitates then replies, ‘You feel good—inside.’

Angel feels pleasure from the words almost more intense than that from the tight channel. 

He lowers his gaze from Spike’s eyes to his lips, but then drags them back as if caught in some guilty act.

Spike stops moving, hesitates, then leans forward and places his lips to Angel’s. 

Suddenly, it’s a blur of hard flesh, writhing. In the frantic intensity of the kiss, Angel slips out. They claw their way across the bed, each trying to climb further inside the other’s mouth. 

With no more thought, Angel stabs forward; Spike is there to meet him thrust for thrust, and suddenly, there’s cum everywhere, shooting from Spike’s cock and leaking out as Angel overloads the tight ass.

Angel makes a sound.  Spike copies it, and they collapse, wet and sated.

The centre of the bed is a mess of spilt fluid, the blood as enticing as the sperm.  Curling together in the rumpled mess, Angel hitches the sheet over them both.

Before he falls asleep, he sides his hand down to Spike’s belly, combs his fingers tightly into Spike’s soft, wet hair, and then they sleep again.

Angel is woken by hunger, but he’s so warm he doesn’t want to move. He takes a deep breath and shifts his fingers slightly in Spike’s now sticky hair.  He moves his other arm and slides it under the still sleeping figure, clasping his fingers together tightly over the hard belly.  It feels like imprisonment, and he’s glad.

Extreme hunger wakes him a few hours later, and reluctantly, he eases from the bed and pads naked to the kitchen.  As the blood heats, he stares back at Spike.

He didn’t have this with Buffy—this time just to stand and enjoy. It was quick then taken from him.  He’s surprised though that looking at Spike, naked and rumpled, should make him think of Buffy.  He can’t see a similarity.  He doesn’t know why he’s smiling either. He’s not really one for gratuitous humour.

He carries the bloodbag back to the bed and wakes Spike with a shake.  Spike sighs and turns over, about to speak, but suddenly, Angel presses his lips to the sleepy ones and opens his mouth. Blood pours out, running down their faces and onto the covers, the spillage not helped by Angel’s laugh and Spike surprised cry of pleasure.

Angel takes another swallow, holding the bag out of Spike’s reach. He swills the blood around in his mouth, looks at Spike then… swallows.  Spike’s eyes fly open, outraged, and Angel chuckles, bending down to kiss the pout. 

The blood is forgotten, the bag squashed beneath them as they roll, kissing.  On one roll, Angel’s belly covered with blood, Spike takes his mouth from the kiss and lowers slowly, licking the red, sticky fluid off the smooth skin. 

As he reaches Angel’s belly button, he pauses, tongue just playing in tiny circles seductively. Angel looks down expectantly.  Spike laughs and wobbles Angel’s belly with both hands.

Genuinely outraged (and not a little embarrassed), Angel rears up and flips Spike onto his back.  Spike lies helpless, laughing, making no attempt to defend himself. The surrender is confirmed when he whispers, ‘Take me again….’

Angel doesn’t reply; he just slides his hands onto the backs of Spike’s thighs, lifting and parting them.  Spike shakes his head and wriggles out from under, turning onto his hands and knees. With a look, eyes lowered and enticing, he fires Angel’s lust until it spills out, pre-cum dripping copiously to the rumpled sheets.

Spike dips at the waist.  Angel pushes in, and they cry out in unison. 

Angel kneels to Spike’s backside, and he has to admit that it’s the perfect position for a man to fuck: straight in, hard and fast.  He thumps forward then stills, remembering something from the previous day.  Cautiously, he eases his hand around Spike, seeking him out.  Spike’s cock is solid and swollen, and with a grunt of relief, Angel begins to ride him properly.

He wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say, can’t remember ever saying much with other lovers. But the absence of talking seems odd with Spike; it’s the one thing they’ve always done too much—talk.

‘Like this?’

He’s pleased with this inspired beginning.

Spike nods then adds, ‘Yeah….’

He rakes his nails down Spike’s back. ‘And that?’

Spike arches like a cat, welts appearing on his pale flesh. ‘Call me Will.’

It’s the least likely thing Angel expected Spike to say, but he replies easily, ‘Do you like that, Will?’

‘Yeah, I do. You used to do that….’

Angel hesitates.  ‘Yeah. I remember. When I was fucking Darla and you were lying alongside us.’  He thumps in, something he’d wanted to do then and makes up for now.

‘Why didn’t you take me then, Angel?’

Angel shifts his angle. ‘Because I’d have lost—yeah—power over you.’  He slows down, not wanting to come too soon.  ‘You can’t dominate someone you’ve—jeez, you’re so tight—mewed with pleasure over. You can’t—mmm—control someone you’ve shared your body with.’

‘Sure you can…. It’s just a different kind of—oh, fuck—dominance.’

‘You were always too human, Will. Clench in… yeah, like that…. Demons shouldn’t think of other kinds of dominance. God, this is good…. There is only one: fear.’

‘I never—ugh—feared you.’

‘Sure you did.’ His balls are beginning to swell, so he eases down even more. It’s the best fuck he’s ever had, and he never wants it to end.  ‘You feared me enough to obey me. Don’t clench! Too….’

‘I obeyed you because I—harder!—respected you.’

‘You’ve a damn funny way of showing—yeah, that’s right, play with yourself—showing respect, Spike—Will. Not seen a lot of respect since you came to L.A.’

‘Yeah, well.  Mmm, that’s good—slow like that….’

‘Like it slow?’ He eases right down, pulling out very slowly, pushing even more gently back in, making sure to grind right in each time until wiry curls brush Spike’s smooth skin.

‘Bloody hell….’

Angel rakes his fingers over the arched back to renew the fading streaks and is rewarded with a long drawn out hiss of pleasure.

Rewarding Spike in turn, he gives a few really hard thrusts, but then eases back again.  ‘You didn’t really want this then.’ 

Spike cranes his head around, and they look at each other for a moment before Angel adds defensively, ‘You’ve changed, Will. You used to be too shy to undress in front of me.’

‘You used to strip me.’

‘Aye, that I remember. See? It was all about control.’

‘You’re the one who’s changed, Angel. I’m exactly what I was then.’

‘You were plump then.’

‘What!’ Spike clenches his backside, but Angel suspects he wasn’t aiming for the effect it actually produces. He groans and lies, utterly undone, over Spike’s back for a moment. ‘Do that again.’

Spike does, and Angel thrusts in against the new tightness.

He puts his hands to Spike’s cheeks and eases them further apart so he can watch his slick cock easing in and out of the stretched hole.

‘I wish we bloody showed up in mirrors.’

Angel murmurs,  ‘We could take some photographs.’

Neither of them laughs, and Angel suspects this interesting suggestion might be raised again.

He’s beginning to feel the desperate need to cum now. ‘You ready?’

There’s a pause then Spike dips lower. ‘Why don’t you make me….’

‘Yesss.’  Angel digs his fingers into the hollows of Spike’s hips and humps him, closing his eyes, enhancing the pleasure by picturing the scene.

He hears a moan from Spike, and the channel spasms around him.  With a huge shout of pleasure, he unloads again, unable to stop crying out, marking with the sharp sounds each individual release.

Spike snakes an arm around him then collapses slowly, keeping him in.

Angel lays on top of his childe, his cock still twitching and jumping inside the prone body.

‘Am I heavy?’

‘What the fuck do you think?’ Angel doesn’t take offence; he’s noticed that Spike’s tightened his arm, imprisoning him entirely.

Angel pretty sure he’ll never move again and begins to welcome sleep.  Just before he succumbs, he pouts and presses his face into the back of Spike’s hair. ‘Spike?’


‘Why did you leave me in the tunnel?’

‘Because I blamed you for turning me.’

‘That suddenly occurred to you? You couldn’t have thought of that, say, a hundred years ago?’

‘Oh, I did, but I didn’t care then—didn’t fear hell, see?’

‘And now you do?’

There’s no reply but a tightening of the arm that’s holding them together. It’s all the reply he needs.’

‘I’ve been to hell, Spike.’

‘I know you have.’

‘And I came back.’


‘Nothing is forever. We live many lives, all of them different and new. If you hadn’t burnt up in that pathetic attempt to impress Buffy, you wouldn’t be here now.  You lose this? Something else will come along.’

‘But I don’t want anything else.’

‘You don’t know that until you see what the something else could be.  We could both be human, for example, and not fighting the fight….’

‘You’re gonna talk about butterflies soon, aren’t you?’


‘Nothing. Human men…?’

‘Could be.’

‘Can’t see it somehow. You’d be wanting to go off and sow your bloody seed with some all-American bint.’

Angel hesitates. It seems wrong somehow to finally speak of Connor while he’s pleasantly hardening inside Spike, but also amazing appropriate as well.  ‘I’ve kinda already done that—although I guess Darla wouldn’t appreciate being called all-American anything….’

‘Shagging Darla don’t count. You weren’t….’

‘No. We had a child together.’

Spike twists his head around, seems to find this inadequate, and rolls them, ignoring Angel’s groan of protest.

He sits up and stares fixedly. ‘A child. When? Or rather, what? Jeez, hell’s spawn, or what?’

‘He was human. A perfect, human baby.’


‘Well, he’s grown….’

‘Angel! You tell me this, but it makes no sense! I mean… when?’

Angel sighs and sits up. ‘Let me make some food. I have a feeling once I begin speaking of Connor, I won’t be able to stop.’

‘Connor. You called him Connor?’  Angel nods, and it must have been a sadder gesture than he’d meant, for suddenly he’s pulled into Spike’s arms. It’s more intimate than the kissing, but he lets it happen.

It’s the best thing he’s felt for longer than he cares to remember. 

Spike sighs and strokes slowly up and down Angel’s back. ‘Maybe hell is the pain we give to each other here on earth after all.’

Angel nods, unable to contradict this at first, but then he adds softly, ‘It wasn’t hell when I first had him, Will. When he was all mine….’ He means something beyond the obvious in the choice of that word, but he’s not sure what that something is.

He’s pretty sure Spike won’t either, but Spike holds him away for a moment and says softly, ‘Maybe love can overcome.’ He pulls Angel in close before the effects of these words are visible on either of their faces.

When the blood is heated, Angel returns, climbing into the damp muskiness of their nest.

Spike is propped up on one elbow, watching him. 

He’s about to hand him one of the bags, but his eyes stray down to Spike’s lips.  He frowns, wrinkling his forehead. He wants to move his mouth closer, does, but draws back, uncertain.  A hand snakes out and captures the back of his neck, and he’s drawn down.

This kiss is revelatory. It’s long and slow, wet and engrossing; noisy moans and murmurs carried on air they’ve begun to breathe once more.  Angel stretches on top of Spike’s body as they kiss, not deliberately rubbing them together, but finding that happening anyway.  He rubs harder, jerking on the strong body beneath him.  The kiss gets louder, cursing intruding on the soft murmurs of need. 

Suddenly, Spike locks his hands behind Angel’s neck, arches with his eyes wide, and a flood of liquid is released between them. The scent of Spike’s cum sends Angel over the edge, and he closes his eyes, releasing too. 

They come to rest, mouths together, not kissing, paused, shivering from the intensity of their individual orgasms.

When Angel opens his eyes, Spike’s are almost too close to focus on.  They’re so blue, dilated until they appear like holes in the earth.  Angel is afraid he’ll fall into them. He slides off and discovers that he’s still clutching a blood bag in each hand.

‘Damn. They’re cold again.’

‘Give it here.’  Spike snatches his and rips in with expert precision.  Angel does the same and drinks quickly, trying not to taste the nearly congealed fluid.

When he’s finished, he glances over at Spike and starts to speak.  Words seem to dry in his mouth, and very slowly, he leans forward as if coming in for another kiss, but at the last minute, his tongue flicks out and catches a drop of blood on Spike’s lip. 

Spike lies back and says, ‘Jesus,’ very quietly. Angel can’t think of anything more appropriate.

A hand comes to rest lightly on his thigh. ‘Tell me about this Connor then, Mate.’

Mate: n. one of a pair; colloq. Partner.  With a smile, Angel lets it go this time.  That seems appropriate, too.

Very precisely and logically, as if he were giving evidence, he outlines the story of Connor and Darla, Cordelia and Wesley. He has to tell Spike about the Beast, about Faith and Angelus. He has to name Jasmine. But most of all, he has to talk about a contract signed and people sacrificed to that agreement: he has to tell him about the mind wipe.

Throughout the long tale, Spike’s thumb strokes over his thigh.

When he’s finished, he looks up for the first time.  Spike twitches up an eyebrow and rolls more comfortably onto his back.


‘Maybe none of it happened.’

‘Huhuh? I mean… huh?’

‘Well… maybe they didn’t get a mind wipe; maybe you got a mind implant. Maybe they’re remembering just fine, but you’re remembering skewy.’


‘Well, yeah. Maybe they wanted you to take this job, so they implanted all that in your memory. You can’t ask anyone, can you? Being as it’s all supposed to be something you’ve done to them. Catch-22.’

Angel is silent for a long time and then says decidedly, ‘You think too much.’

Spike laughs and turns back onto his side, propped on one elbow. 

Angel turns his head. ‘What now?’

Spike flicks up his eyebrow, a glint in his eyes.  Angel begins to fall into their limpid centres then jerks back. ‘What?’

Spike puts a possessive hand on his arm and pulls him sharply forward.

For the next half hour, Spike demonstrates his possessiveness. 

It’s only the ringing phone that brings Angel back to an awareness of what they are doing—of what he is doing.

Of what Spike is doing.

Go to chapter 4