Chapter 6 - Spike's Next Day

Spike’s kinda glad the phone rang.

He’s fairly sure he’s got the balls to fuck Angel… fairly sure, but not… entirely.

Fucking Angel comes with so much baggage in his mind. It’s so much more than mere… fucking.

Topping Angel just isn’t natural (given all the other ways the whole enterprise seems unnatural, too).

Topping Angel is like fucking a parent, and he’s not got a very impressive record in that department.

He stretches his arms out on the bed, enjoying the rumpled sweaty, cum-damp feel of the sheets.

Angel is still strong in his mouth, a musky, salty, erotic taste that stiffens him as he runs his tongue over his lips.

If he closes his eyes, he has a vivid picture of Angel’s arsehole, his cheeks spread, his thighs open.  He groans and turns onto his belly, wanting to jerk off, but not wanting to lose the edge. He has the feeling that he’ll need this edge when Angel gets back. 

If Angel comes back….

He tries to project his thoughts down to Angel, sense where he is and what he’s doing.  With a huff of pleasure, he knows that Angel is thinking about him.  With a sense of wonder, it also occurs to him that Angel will always be thinking about him now. 

It will change things. Spike just isn’t sure whether it will change them for the better. 

Why have they done this thing now? They’ve had better opportunities.  Why now when things seem so… desperate.

And perhaps that’s exactly the reason why Angel has allowed it.  What does it matter what you do, if there’s no tomorrow? It’s like the game where you have to list all the things you’d do if you only had six months to live: nothing becomes too outrageous, nothing impossible—for nothing has any consequence.

Perhaps that’s how Angel feels. Why not fuck the idiot? Might as well go out with a bang.

With a grin, Spike realises he’s doing exactly what he did picturing Angel with Wesley—enjoying imagining something he knows is not true. Self-flagellation covered in Angel’s drying cum is extremely addictive though, so he turns onto his back and indulges in some more.

If Angel is thinking about him, then perhaps it’s not good thoughts. He’s back with Wesley now, and the human has an unbreakable hold on Angel’s heart. Why else would Angel have let him live after what he did? Spike wouldn’t have. He’s not that sentimental where humans are concerned. 

(It’s his imagination; he’ll lie as much as he likes.)

So, Angel down in his office—probably leaning against his desk because it makes his legs look longer and thinner and gives him something to do with his hands—is thinking bitter thoughts about what they’ve done. Possibly disgusted, almost certainly angry and blaming him, seeing himself as a victim of seduction.

He likes that and trickles it through his mind again—him seducing Angel… Angel resisting… but not very convincingly….

He rolls over and rubs himself into the sheet, smelling deeply into the strong aromas.  It seems an age that Angel’s been gone. Glancing at the clock, he sees a book on the nightstand. Idly, he pulls it off and props it up against the pillow, squinting at the words.  It’s the most intimate thing he’s done in the apartment, the books Angel chooses to read somehow more personal even than his body.

It’s in French, so he doesn’t get far with it. He knows his French is better than Angel’s though, so lets it drop to the floor with a small, evil chuckle. He could have such fun, bugging the eternity out of Angel.

With a sigh, he peels himself off the sheet and heads into the bathroom, scratching his belly. He lines up all Angel’s poofy products and proceeds to scrub the angst out of his life.

Things always change. The knack is to change with them.  He’s always been flexible.

The image of himself being flexible for Angel doesn’t help his resistance to the temptation to beat off. 

He pours something girlie-smelling onto his prick and uses that excuse to wash… slowly.

It stops him thinking, which is good for once.  

Suddenly, Angel materialises in the steam and invades his private place. Spike resists the urge to laugh—his shower, for a moment, seeming more private than his arsehole.

Angel’s desire for him is palpable, thickening the steam.

Very slowly, Spike tips his neck back and offers him something that’s been private between them for over a hundred years.

Angel’s whole body is tense and aroused; his prick is stiff between them, and he bites.  Spike feels an intense shudder of pleasure course through him at this familiar taking, and then there’s a new potency in the air: the thick scent of cum.  He can feel it hitting his skin and being washed off in the hot stream from above.  But best of all, he can feel Angel’s orgasm through the teeth that invade him and the tongue that licks into the bite as he surrenders his blood.

Angel’s lack of control is intensely human. It levels them, takes away the significance of the bite, so that when they kiss, it feels more like kissing an equal than it has since the sex began between them.

But Angel is still so strong, so invulnerable. Nothing Spike can do seems to hurt him: no wrongly placed elbow, no teeth too careless on his lips, no scratch of nails that he doesn’t seem to enjoy.

They fall out of the stall, slipping on the wet floor, and Spike finds himself on top, their skin slick and hot from the water. 

Looking into Angel’s dark eyes, Spike has a moment of blinding clarity. 

This is when Angel will decide what the future will hold for all of them. If he’s lost his will to survive, then Angel won’t submit to him. If Angel won’t submit to him then this has all been what Angel said it was: just something to stop his distraction.

If he submits, if he’s willing to take this new path and explore it, then it’s something a great deal more than that.  It’s something that will change everything, a new beginning, rising phoenix-like from the ashes of Angel’s pain.

‘Well?’ Do you want to survive Angel? Do we have a future?

Angel opens his legs in willing surrender, drawing them up as if beckoning in that future.

It seems to Spike that for the first time since his sire held their hands burning in the sunlight, Angel is taking a step he wants to and not one forced on him by guilt or by some seductive desire to save the world. This is just something Angel wants for himself. It’s the start of his recovery—conscious decisions about a future he can make and shape to his own desires.

Forcefully, knowing it will hurt however he does it, Spike pushes his prick against Angel’s tight hole.  There’s no give at all, so he pushes harder.

He doesn’t even want to take the pain away. It’s like a rite of passage—he went through it, and he wants Angel to experience it too… experience the pleasure beyond the pain. Neither of them is unfamiliar with that concept.

Angel beings to twist to escape the pain, so Spike opens his mouth wide and kisses feverishly: wet, slurping, desperate kisses. 


His foreskin bunches painfully against the ridge of his cockhead as he pushes, but then he’s through.  He looks down. The sight is more incredible than the sensation: Angel stretched around his width, pale skin contrasting with the purplish tint of his swollen prick. 

Suddenly, Angel lifts his hips, and with a jolt of shock, Spike realises that every tiny movement sends frissons of pleasure up his shaft into his balls.  It’s so tight. He’s not used to this incredible pressure.  Experimentally, he slides further in.  Equally hesitantly, he explores the pulling out.

A surge of near-release flares around his groin at the exquisite sensations, and bracing himself either side of Angel, he starts to pummel in and out.

He’s concentrating so hard on the pleasure in his cock that he’s forgotten the rest of his body—until Angel’s hands find his back and claw at him.  He wants more, deeper, further into Angel’s body… anything to increase the pleasure, and he lifts Angel’s thighs, flattening his ass, enabling him to plumb new depths of the tight channel encompassing him.

There’s a strange noise, and he realises he’s keening quietly.  When he stops, he begins to pant, sweat dripping off his forehead and into Angel’s eyes.  He wonders if it stings, but sees from Angel’s expression that he’s hardly there, that he’s lost in the pleasure.

That thought—that he’s bringing Angel pleasure with his body—brings him off.  His face contorts. His whole body spasms, and with a huge shudder, he releases a long, intensely pleasurable load of sperm deep into Angel’s body. 

For one bizarre moment, he wonders how his cum is also hitting Angel’s face—shot after shot in time with his pumping.  Two releases… he’d forgotten. It makes him harden again, makes everything swell and fill, and on the slippery sweetness of his ejaculate, he pumps in and out, wanting to see Angel come, watching avidly to see that evidence of this total surrender.

The second orgasm is even more intense as it surfs in on the shuddering pleasure of the first.  Crying out together, they release once more, and this time, Spike allows his body to crumple in a heap of spent energy.

He’s melting into Angel’s warmth, the strong body surprisingly comfortable.  His prick is still twitching inside Angel’s body, and if he concentrates on the images in his mind, he can make it swell and lift.  Angel seems to be asleep, or comatose. Either is flattering in its own way. Spike distinctly remembers Angel saying he wouldn’t let his guard down around him again…. He grins softly into Angel’s chest, the pleasure of being trusted hardening him in the sloppy channel. 

When Angel jerks to wakefulness, he groans and levers himself up on his elbows, disentangling them.  Spike’s torn between wanting to go again and wanting to hear the news from downstairs. Although he’d never admit it to Angel, he likes these humans he works with, and rescuing anyone from hell seems like a pretty good idea.

He’s still wondering how to find out without actually asking when he emerges into the bedroom and sees Angel glance toward the bed.

It’s covered with bags—the kind you really want to open, even if you’re a man.

He tips one of them out, acutely aware that Angel is behind him and fairly sure that his sire isn’t admiring the clothes.  His backside twitches in an involuntary spasm, and he hears a faint moan.  He makes a snarky comment about the T-shirt that’s fallen out of the bag and goes to pull it on.  Angel catches him and wraps his arms around his waist.  ‘Go shower.’

‘I’ve just done that, Wanker.’

‘You’ve got all… dirty again….’

‘Hmm, have I…?’  It’s so ludicrous, this attempt to flirt after a century of knowing what the other is thinking—when it suits them—that they laugh, and Angel swats him painfully on the backside.  ‘Fuck off and make yourself decent.’

‘But I told you: there’s no hot….’

‘Yeah, well, we’ve both been lying recently.’

Spike blinks then with a rueful nod, walks naked across the room toward his own apartment.

He waits until Angel goes back into the bathroom then skits back in to open the rest of the bags. Too much washing is unchristian, and no one’s ever accused him of being that. And lived.

Things tumble from bags and every item is… perfect—exactly what he would have bought in the other version of his life where he really is cool. And rich.  Jeans with fashionable tearing and weathering that now don’t look wrong. T-shirts so tight that he can see his abs outlined beneath them. Pants so tight that he’s afraid to sit down. Either Angel thinks he’s thinner than he really is or….

The extremely arousing thought that Angel deliberately bought all his clothes to be this close fitting, doesn’t help the fit of the pants at all.  He debates adding a new tear, one to make things comfortable and chuckles at possibilities for fun that suggests.

Finally, he settles for a pair of combat pants that sit low on his hips and a T-shirt that hardly meets them, leaving a gap of skin when he moves.  They’re cut over his biceps, and he stretches, wishing he could see what he looks like in a mirror.  With a grin, he decides to see the effect on Angel’s expression. That’s mirror enough for him.

He doesn’t expect Angel to be laughing, but he is.  It’s possibly the best thing Spike has heard since I love you, which wasn’t true, but he burnt up enjoying, nevertheless.  Trying to stop his voice sounding too wussy, he says softly, ‘What’s so funny?’

The look Angel turns on him sends shivers down his spine. An icy trickle tickles his cockhead. Utterly embarrassed, he looks down, ‘Bloody poofy things.’

Angel is then like a force of nature: hot, urgent, and compelling.

He tugs at the waistband of the pants, cups the obvious bulge, runs his fingers under the thin T-shirt.

‘Hey! You’re all wet… don’t….’ Angel’s not listened to him for a century; Spike’s glad he’s not going to start now.  He’s hugged to the hard, wet body.  Angel reaches around, trying to slide a hand down inside the pants. The waistband’s too tight, and Angel curses, laughing, clearly amused by the joke on him.  He rips instead and then shoves his hands down to cup and separate the hard cheeks.  Groaning with pleasure, he explores the shallow crevice with strong fingers.

Spike is utterly lost to the desire to be filled again. His ass clenches in anticipation, so the entry, when it comes, is graced by pleasure enhancing pain.

They’ve not done it standing up before, and bending over, taking it up the ass, is so inherently wrong that enjoying it so much makes Spike laugh with glee.  Angel murmurs something, equally exalted and seizes his hair, pushing his fingers into the long locks and tugging on them like reins, riding him.

Spike’s lost to the pleasure of the rapid, hard fucking, waves of desire being driven into his body.  Then Angel seems to think that he’s too lost and pulls him up, nuzzling into his neck.

They kiss clumsily, wet, sloppy kisses that make them smile and pull away then come back on, tonguing and mouthing for more taste, more indulgence.

Suddenly, Angel slows everything down, and it’s even better than the rapid thrusting. Slowly, every inch of his channel is stoked, and an orgasm starts to build.


Spike knows the question is rhetorical. His hands tightly clenched on Angel’s backside rocking them together, must tell Angel just how good this really is. 

‘I miss you inside me.’

‘Be back in there soon, Mate.’

‘I think, in some ways, you’ve… always been there.’ 

Spike wants to see his face. It’s been a long time coming, but the confession is no less moving for that.  He feigns derision, trying to hide affection and replies, ‘Nah, you’re just daft wanker, that’s all, Angel.’

Perhaps for the first time ever, Angel seems to see effortlessly past the masquerade. 

Instead of taking offence, he laughs and topples them both to the bed, coming dislodged.  Spike curses and tries to straddle him—anything to have that hardness back inside his body.  He’s still wearing his pants half-mast, and he tips over, trying to free his legs.  Angel’s laughing too much to help, so Spike suddenly lunges forward and bites him. Like lightning, he strikes the highest point.

Angel howls and knees him, and then it’s war, and they’re both fighting to retain something they really don’t need between them anymore: dignity. They keep up appearances, for old times’ sake, and the battle is long and hard. If there’s more licking and sucking and tasting and moaning, than biting and punching and kicking, then there’s no one to point this out but them, and they’re too busy enjoying the prolonged, vicious foreplay to bother with words.

When he comes, Spike isn’t even sure who’s in and who’s out. His vision greys out with the all-consuming pleasure ravaging his body, and when he comes down from the shuddering intensity, he’s supine, spread-eagled and spent.

He’ll never be able to award Angel any prizes that would better this now. It seems to Spike that their entire lives have been a rehearsal for this.  He turns his head and regards the bloodied profile for a moment.

‘So, what do you reckon… when we were fighting for that damn cup of perpetual piss-off… did you want to do this as well?’

‘What do you think?’

Spike chuckles. 

Suddenly, Angel turns to him, propping his head up on his elbow.  ‘Will you want this in the fight that’s coming, Spike? Will you want it enough to win that fight, too? Will you survive with me?’

It’s pretty unique as proposals go. But how else would you put eternity together into words? 

How do you put the reply into words? Spike watches the dark eyes carefully then, very precisely, in his mind, makes his answer.  With a burn of pleasure, he knows that for the first time, Angel really hears him.

He smiles back.

The End

Feedback always very welcome to: Jenny