Never Get The Girls
Title: Never Get The Girls
Contact journal: lettered
Angelus/William, Angel/Soulless!Spike, Angelus/Souled!Spike, Angel/Souled!Spike
Summary: Four scenes, very loosely linked, mostly by sex and
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Elements of non-con/dub-con, violence, violent sex, a
distinct lack of lube at times, non-ritualized BDSM, cigarette burns,
graphic description of burns, dirty talk, not just in the good way—I mean
some really offensive language, daddy kink, rimming, oral sex, anal sex,
knife play, blood, character death--not very central/graphic
Word Count: around 9,000
Author's Notes: Thank you to lynnenne for discussing ideas
Please, please, please please do read the warnings.
Never Get the Girls
“You still think she’s your one true love,” Angelus said.
“Are you going to give me the speech again?” said William.
“’She’s not mine,’ ‘I don’t deserve anything,’ et cetera, et cetera. You
know, sometimes I worry about your self-confidence.”
“I wouldn’t worry, if I were you.”
In the three days since he had watched Angelus fuck Drusilla, William had
entered an awkward adolescent phase, his speech changing pattern, his
clothes changing texture. Angelus looked at him and thought of Penn, and
wondered whether it was possible to bend or break a vampire.
Little girls, after all, were just so easy.
“She cried like a little girl,” Angelus said, “when I put it to her.”
“Yes, good on you,” William said. “You have a simply massive cock; you
should be proud, I’m sure.”
Angelus watched him for a while. William sat at the window, looking out,
precariously close to the sunshine pouring between the curtains. His arms
were wrapped around his knees, a boyish pose; his hair still hung in honey
curls. It was almost a pity, Angelus thought, never to have seen sunlight
“I’m thinking of getting her a wee little sailor boy.” William turned back
to him. “What do you think of that?”
“Her tastes tend lately toward fops.”
“Do they?” William might once have taken offence. Now he simply smiled in a
way that he was learning, which looked almost like a smirk. Angelus liked
it less. “Lost her bent for the working man, has she? You know, the Lord
Nelson types, common sorts raised above their birth and that rot.”
Angelus waved a hand. It bore the callouses he had had in life; the wrist
was clad in silk. “Horatio was a fecking ball-bag.”
William rolled his eyes. “And you knew Byron, too.”
“Of course.” Angelus lounged, legs up. Young William still had not quite
got over gentlemen in relaxed attitude, just as he had not quite conquered
the thrill of tearing petticoats to shreds. Knowing the effect it had,
Angelus let one boot fall to the floor so that his thighs were spread. “He
wasn’t dangerous to know at all.”
William’s eyes darkened. He licked his lips and changed the subject.
“Perhaps I’ll fetch Dru a poet. We’re approaching St. Valentine’s Day.”
“I thought she had one.” Angelus used that same silky tone.
“Oh, I’m all through with that. Didn’t you know?”
“Run out of rhymes, did you?”
“No. I just don’t need them.” William inclined his head. “Why bother with
poetry, when I have everything a poet could ever wish for?”
“I never took you for a philistine.”
William’s eyes measured him a while, a specific invitation, a challenge.
Deliberately, he turned back to the window. “I have everything I need.”
Angelus put his other boot on the floor, and stood. Walking to the window,
he stopped in front of William, by the edge of light. “Everything?”
Slowly William stood, looking up with that same challenge in his eyes,
batting in pretty, light-colored lashes. “Absolutely.”
“True love,” Angelus said, touching William’s cravat. His hand wandered
down the frock-coat, brushing buttons, sinking lower to the trousers.
“Happily ever after.”
Angelus’s thumb pressed against the placket of William’s trousers, finding
the line of his cock, heavy and hard. He leaned down, his lips against
William’s hair. “We don’t have souls.”
William swayed toward him, almost imperceptibly. “Makes it even more
impressive. Don’t you think?”
“No.” Angelus’s thumb slid down the hard ridge of his cock. “It makes you a
William angled his hips, a very small amount, pressing into Angelus’s hand.
“Is this foolish?”
“Yes,” Angelus said, and pushed him into the light.
William, who had been ready for it, brought his knee up hard between
Angelus’s legs. Staggering in sudden pain, Angelus lunged for William, foot
catching on his, going down hard. In moments, William was on top of him in
a maneuver Angelus had taught him, and his hips were grinding down. “You
don’t think poets dream of this?” William said, breathless despite the air
he did not need.
“No,” said Angelus, and pushed him off. Rolling, they switched positions,
Angelus now on top. “Well,” he said, “maybe Byron.”
“You think I care if you tup her?” Under him, William lifted his hips. “I
let you tup me all the time. Hell, I tup—”
“Say, ‘fuck,’” Angelus said, leaning down to speak into the shell of
William’s ear. “I like the way your lips look around it.”
“It doesn’t mean we love you.”
Angelus pulled back and punched him in the face. They rolled around on the
floor; Angelus full of fangs and harsh hands until William was the way he
liked him best—half in a state of dishabille, and colored red with
blood. William was laughing, which Angelus did not necessarily prefer.
He never used to laugh like this.
Rolling into the light, William was crawling to get away; Angelus caught
him by the ankle and yanked him back. Kneeling, Angelus held William on all
fours, pressing against his arse from behind. “Do you believe in fate?” he
asked, leaning down until his chest was against William’s back, his lips
beside his ear.
William huffed a laugh. “Philosophy? Now?”
Angelus yanked what remained of William’s trousers down, wetting William’s
hole with spit and blood. “I said,” while his fingers worked inside of him,
“do you believe in a higher power?”
Snorting, William arched back into his fingers. “I thought we were going
to—copulate.” He rolled his hips.
“Drusilla does.” Removing his fingers, Angelus worked his own trousers open
now, his own cock hard and ready for it. He pressed his cock against
William’s arse, William’s smooth skin looking younger than it really should
have, firm and ready to get fucked. “She believes in God and angels. And I
bet she’s just like you—she thinks that fate brought you together. She thinks
you’re very special—a gift from God, maybe the Devil. I’m not really clear
on how her addled mind perceives things.”
William twitched, and then purposefully moved back, grinding his arse
against Angelus’s cock. “Going to shove that fat prick in there? Or are you
just going to tease?” He definitely sounded irked, but Angelus didn’t
necessarily count it a success. William never would have talked that way
Angelus reached around, squeezing William’s bollocks, which were tight and
heavy with need. “I could make you wait all day,” he whispered, teeth
grazing William’s ear.
William shuddered. “Good on you, but I’m more of a man of action, really,
“Drusilla thinks you’re the gift of a higher power.” Angelus yanked him
back, holding him in place with the weight of his half his body, and his
hand wrapped tight around William’s balls. “Do you know who her higher
“Let me think.”
“It’s me,” and Angelus pushed inside of him, roughly through the friction
of William’s tight, unwilling hole, while William shivered and said,
“You’re such a goddamn bastard.”
“She thinks I made you,” Angelus said, pulling back and thrusting deeper,
“and I can take you away.”
William caught air in his mouth, arched—and laughed.
He laughed and laughed and laughed.
Angelus wrapped a fist in his honey hair and pulled; he pulled until
William’s body was a bow and then pulled harder until William stopped
laughing and gurgled. Angelus slammed his hips against him, deep inside and
“Oh, make me,” William said, but his voice was sing-song, mocking. “Make me
and unmake me; oh, Angelus—Christ.”
Angelus sunk his fangs in to the jut of William’s shoulder blade, and
“Christ—” William never used to swear this way—“bloody hell—do it
“You’ll do anything I want,” Angelus said, because William’s body was
turning into a mess under his hands, slick with blood and bruises, pliant
under him and pushing back, wrapped tight around his cock, taking him still
“What?” William said, arching back to meet him. “Oh, right, anything, I’ll
do anything—did you want me to keep going?” His voice was dry. “Beg for
mercy? Mercy, oh God, please, mercy—”
Angelus twisted William’s cock, biting harder down; William just wheezed a
laugh and said, “Oh God, that’s right, hurt me harder—”
“Shut up,” Angelus said, and with his other hand he smashed William’s head
down so hard that his arms collapsed, and didn’t hold him up—“shut the
“Oh yes,” William said, “hurt me, hurt me, you certainly are the man in this
“—up,” Angelus said, smashing William’s face again, thrusting hard against
his arse. William’s hips had gone clumsy, and yet they still erratically
pressed back for more; he was taking it and taking it, sporadically
clenching tight around Angelus’s cock, as though he really longed for more
and harder, even deeper.
“You’re a God just like she said,” William said, the sound strange—his nose
was probably broken—“and you’ve got an enormous prick; does she tell you
that? You’ve got the cock of the bloody Messiah—such a man, my savior—”
Angelus slid his fangs along his back until skin began to come off in
ribbons, and William just kept talking.
“—so big and thick, the way you fuck, you own me, Daddy; I’m yours—”
The sarcasm was barely even audible, the sound was so distorted, but the
laughter was still distinguishable.
Angelus broke his jaw, and in the raw, sudden silence, with nothing but the
sound of bruised hips and dripping blood, he came.
He left him on the floor and got up to pour himself a drink.
William came to slowly; he had to hold his jaw as bone and ligament knit
back together, and even then his face was still purple, one eye sealed
shut. Angelus had shed cravat, vest, and shirtsleeves, tucking himself
neatly back inside his pants. He lounged carelessly on the divan in nothing
but boots and trousers, watching William gingerly sit up.
William worked his mouth. “You know what the difference between us is?”
Angelus sipped his cognac. “What’s that?”
“I don’t need to win.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“I don’t even care.”
“You care.” Angelus nudged him with a boot. “Just about the wrong things.”
“So you think,” William said.
“I’m going to fuck your throat,” was all that Angelus said. “Do you need a
Tilting his head, William looked at him, and Angelus didn’t like it. It was
a thoughtful look, and pensive; it was the way William looked at Drusilla
when she quoted nursery rhymes—as though she were from another planet, and
he wished he could be from her planet too.
“Well?” Angelus said.
“Are you asking?” William said.
The hint of a smile twitched at the corner of William’s blood-caked lips.
“Then come on and shove it down my throat, big Daddy,” he said, that arch
and teasing tone, “you know how I just ache to have a mouthful of nice big
“You won’t be laughing soon.” Angelus put down his cognac.
“Break my jaw again,” William suggested. “I’ll take you even farther down.”
But he was coming closer, on the floor, and Angelus’s knees were spread.
William’s hands settled on his trousers. They were gentle, patrician hands,
stained with blood.
William unfastened Angelus’s flies in a slow but thoughtful way. He took
Angelus’s cock out gently, and then looked up, his pretty eyes fringed with
honey lashes. “You know,” William said, “I don’t really care about the
rest. I just love her, and she loves me. It’s all that really matters.”
Angelus tilted his hips. “Suck it,” he said.
“It’s not enough for you, is it? Nothing ever is,” William said, and sucked
“She was your one true love.”
“Spike,” Angel said.
Spike draped himself along the doorframe. “Wasn’t she?”
Angel turned from the door. He knew it would be pointless to tell Spike to
go away. “What do you want?”
“Just you, sunshine.” Spike came in and shut the door.
Angel had followed Willow back to Sunnydale the previous evening; what had
been left of last night was just long enough to see Buffy’s grave and check
on Dawn, make sure everything would be okay. He had called Cordelia from
the motel that morning; he planned to drive back to Los Angeles tonight.
“Not me,” Spike said. “I had Dru.”
Angel hadn’t checked on Spike. Willow said that he still had his chip, and
that he had helped them in the end. She told him just enough that he got
the picture, about Spike and Buffy; Angel wouldn’t have believed it, except
that it was Spike, and when it came to him believing anything ridiculous
“Good for you,” Angel said.
“Yep. That crazy bitch.” Spike took out his lighter, a cigarette; he lit it
up, waved the smoke around. “Found her first, didn’t you.”
He wasn’t going to do this. He wasn’t seriously going to do this.
“You found her and you fucked her; you broke her brain and cast her off,
didn’t you—useless bint, got tired of her.” Spike sucked on the cigarette.
“Found Buffy first, too.”
He was Spike, of course he was going to do this.
“I didn’t find her,” Angel said.
“And you fucked her,” Spike went on. “All this epic, breakdown shit.”
“All right.” Angel turned away again. “I fucked her.”
“She get useless too, I wonder,” but it wasn’t a question; Spike wasn’t
really wondering. “You get tired of her hot wet cunt, tired of making her
your little whore—”
Spike was doing this, but Angel didn’t have to do it too. So he just said,
“Yes,” and didn’t turn around.
“You’re a fucking bastard.”
“You’re just going to stand there.” Spike’s tone was high, incredulous.
“You’re just going to stand there and let me talk about her that way.”
“No.” Spike came toward him, grabbed his arm. Turning Angel around, he
flicked his cigarette on the motel floor, and clocked him in the jaw. “I’m
not going to let you.”
Angel staggered back, and stood there.
Spike kicked him in the stomach. “Come on and fight me.”
Advancing, Spike slammed him up against the wall. His fangs were out and he
was pulling Angel down, to get up in his face. “Fight me,” Spike said.
“Come on and be a man.”
Angel just looked down, shifting slightly against Spike’s lean hard body.
“Go ahead and hit me. Rip me to pieces. See how I like it.”
Spike’s eyes searched his, back and forth and frantic, looking for
something, anything in Angel’s face. Then he phased back into human
features, and let him go. “Fuck you.” Spike shuddered, turned away. “Fuck
Sagging against the wall, Angel closed his eyes. They flew open when
Spike’s knee jammed against his crotch.
“Fuck you,” Spike said again, and his eyes were bright. “You can’t even
fucking hit me? You can’t even fucking try to fucking hate me? What,
is nothing ever going to be the—” He cut himself off abruptly,
fumbled for more cigarettes.
Angel watched him, and didn’t understand it. “You loved Dru,” he said,
because that, at least, he knew was true. He hadn’t really understood it,
as Angelus, but he understood it later. He understood that he had loved
Darla; he had even loved Drusilla and Spike, in his own twisted way, but it
had not been at all what Spike had wanted from Drusilla. They had never
really been the same.
“Dru.” Spike finally got his cigarette lit. “Yeah. Love eternal.”
“Buffy.” Angel was unable, fundamentally, to really make it a question.
Spike shook his head. “Buff—the Slayer. No. I hated that—that—I hated—hated—”
His hand passed over his eyes, chewed nails, chipping black. His cigarette
“Why?” Angel said.
“Because, she was a fucking—she was a fucking—” Spike’s hand shook so hard
he dropped the cigarette, and then he lobbed another fist at Angel’s face.
Angel, head whipped to the side, spit blood. “Because she was too good for
you. Is that it?”
“Poncing—” Spike kicked him in the ribs—“fucking—” blow across the
ear—“wanker,” and Angel at last fought back, because there was anything he
couldn’t deal with right now, it was William the Bloody fucking crying on
his fucking shoulder.
“You’re dead,” Angel said, and hit him. “You’re soulless.” He slammed him
down on the floor, and got on top of him. “And you’re filthy.”
“Fuck you,” Spike said, and lunged for his neck, fangs tearing flesh.
Angel slammed his head down. “Is that really all you got?”
Spike’s knee came up between Angel’s legs, and he rolled away with the
advantage, coming up again and ready to go. “You worthless bastard,” Spike
said, blood running down his chin. “You’re not any better than me.”
“You’re right.” Angel stood more slowly. “I’m not.” His fist uppercut
Spike’s jaw; Spike staggered back against the wall. Angel pinned him there,
and Spike squirmed.
“That’s right.” Spike’s hips rolled. “You’re fucking filthy too. We’re
fucking foul, we are.”
Angel thought that if he had had the ability to feel nauseated, he would
have then. Instead he just felt empty—the way her eyes were empty, the way
that graves were empty, until filled. He let Spike go. “I—”
“Goddamn raging pillock,” Spike said, and kneed him again. “Don’t you
fucking stop. I need—I need . . . just—”
Angel slammed him back against the wall. “You keep kicking me there, you’re
not going to get what you need.” His thigh pushed hard between Spike’s
“Yes.” Spike’s voice was more like a hiss; he writhed on Angel’s thigh. “Yes—”
“You’re going to have to work harder for it than that,” Angel said, and let
Spike came after him; Angel knew he would, tackling him from behind, foot
catching between his legs, taking him down to the floor, breaking the chair
at the motel table. Spike climbed on top of him, slammed a fist against his
temple. Angel grabbed him, threw him off; they grappled until Angel was on
top, and Spike was moving his hips in that sinuous way all over again.
Angel got off.
Spike pulled him down, straddled him again, hit him until Angel was just
waiting for the next blow to come, the next, the next. He couldn’t feel
anything; he was numb.
He looked up at Spike between the fists and thought that Spike felt
things. He always felt everything. He always accused Angel of making him,
teaching him everything he knew, but Angel never taught him this.
Angel didn’t know how to do this.
“Fuck you,” Spike said, and suddenly, he just stopped. Sitting back on his
haunches brought his ass up against Angel’s groin, and though his cock was
hard, Angel was having a hard time really caring. “Just fuck you,” Spike
said, grinding down. “What do I have to do to make you fucking—what do you
“I want you to go away,” Angel said, speaking with a mushy mouth, smashed
up face. “Leave me alone.”
Spike climbed off of him, sat beside him, knees up, legs open. He held out
his hand in front of his face—it was shaking far less. He looked down at
Angel, who just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, seeing Spike at the
corner of his eye. Spike put his hand down.
“Got to get back to the crew in L.A., do you?” Spike said eventually.
“Heard about the little one. What was it—Doyle. Pretty, runty little Mick
bastard, I’m sure you’d like that, wouldn’t you. He liked you, too. I saw
him. He’d’ve sucked your cock, if you asked him to. He’d have taken it and
thanked you for it. And I’ve heard about Wesley, too I’ve heard all about
that one. I bet he’d just bend over and take it, wouldn’t he. If you gave
it to him, but you won’t, will you, because you’re a self-denying twat,
“You’re pretending to be good. You’re pretending like the power, the
control—the fucking faith they all have in you—you pretend like it
doesn’t fucking get you high, like your balls don’t tighten like a fucking
virgin’s twat every time a fucking one of them professes faith to you, and
Cordelia, the tits on that goddamn sodding—”
“Let me have a cigarette,” Angel said.
“No.” Spike’s voice was moody.
Upset, then, that it wasn’t working. Angel sighed. “I’ll use it on you,” he
Spike thought about that. “Okay,” he said. Taking out another cigarette and
his lighter, he gave one to Angel, and Angel lay there while Spike lit it
“Go on a bit,” Angel said, and smoked.
Spike tilted his head. “No.”
Angel just kept smoking.
“Not until you use it,” Spike said. “I lit it up for a reason.”
Angel breathed in the smoky air. He didn’t need the smoke. He couldn’t
taste it. He didn’t know why Spike liked it so much. “Okay,” Angel said.
“Go stand beside the table.”
Angel smoked some more. “There aren’t any other demons who could do this
Spike rolled his eyes. “No, Daddy, there’s no one else as good as you.”
“Don’t baby talk.” Angel locked his teeth around the cigarette, stood up,
leaned down to grab Spike’s arm. Hauling Spike up, he dragged him over to
the table. “You’ve got to keep it up,” he said, “or I won’t do it.”
“The tits on that cocksucking cunt, Cordelia,” Spike said immediately. “You
want to fuck her raw, don’t you. You think about her sodding cunt all the
time, don’t you, and how her blood would taste. You can smell it, can’t
you; does the little catty bitch smell like Sunnydale; does she wear her
varsity fucking cheerleading—”
Angel jammed the cigarette in his mouth and shoved Spike up against the
table, started pulling off Spike’s coat. “Don’t stop,” he said.
Spike proceeded to wax obscenely poetic about all the things that Angel
wanted to do to Cordelia, to Wesley, to Doyle; he didn’t include Winnifred
or Lorne—they were new, but it was good enough, and most of it was true.
“Keep going,” Angel said, when he yanked Spike’s jeans down.
Spike began talking immediately all over again, naked, bent over the table,
ass in the air, and Angel used to like him best like this, all spread out,
and Spike used to tolerate it because he found it very funny, that Angelus
thought he was in control.
“You think you’re going to save the sodding world,” Spike said, “but what
did you do for a hundred years? You wasted it. You’re not a bloody hero—you
were a coward. If you were worth anything at all, you would have—bloody
Angel tapped the hot ash from the cigarette onto Spike’s smooth, pale back.
“Bloody hell. Do it again.”
Angel stubbed the cigarette out on Spike’s back. Spike bucked hard against
the table. “Where’s your lighter?” Angel asked.
“’N m’jeans.” It was more of a moan, really. “Motherfucking monster, you
“Yeah,” Angel said, but the strange affection in Spike’s words made him
move a little faster, getting the lighter from Spike’s jeans. Not wanting
to hear it, he flipped the lighter open. Laying his other hand on the long,
firm curve of Spike’s flank, he flicked the lighter with the other hand,
and brought the flame down onto the pretty wing of Spike’s white shoulder.
The sound that Spike made was not quite human, and he kept making it
whenever Angel burned him, making it and making it until he was a moaning,
writhing heap, humping the table erratically between pushing his ass back
frantically against Angel’s hips.
“That’s enough,” Angel said, after a while, and closed the lighter.
“You fucking maniac.” Spike was babbling. “You’re a fucking head case.”
“I want you to talk like you were before. About me.” Angel’s voice was very
“You would, you sodding, self-involved bloody poofter. All right, I haven’t
even fucking got to that disgusting self-righteous fucking display aboard
“I want you to talk about me and Buffy.”
Spike suddenly went quiet, and very, very still. His back was a mess of
dead flesh, flaking, sooty skin, ashes, scabs. When he shuddered, broken
skin cracked and oozed red. Angel splayed his hand against it, and pressed
down into the seared, curled flesh.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he said quietly. “You’re going to talk.”
“Yeah,” Spike said. “Okay.”
Angel had no idea why he would. He had no idea why either of them would,
why either of them were this way. It was not in the least cathartic, and
Angel didn’t understand what Spike would do now—whether he would keep looking
for this, again—a dozen, a thousand times, or would he look for Dru; what
would he do with grief, when neither of them were supposed to feel it;
neither of them had any place to put it; Angel didn’t know.
But he knew what he would do. He would go back to L.A. He would pretend to
be a man, and for months, he would hear Spike’s cries in his ears,
reminding him of what he really was.
That, at least, was a comfort.
“You’re vile and lowdown,” Spike was saying, and Angel pressed inside his
body, firm and young and dead, utterly and completely. “You’re obscene, a
loathsome corpse, a preserved cadaver, why would she want—why would she want—”
Air caught in Spike’s throat, and Angel pressed in harder. “Keep going,” he
“Why would she want you, when you have nothing to offer her, and she’s too
good, she is—she was too good, and I’m nothing but a—”
“Don’t stop,” Angel said.
Spike swallowed, arching back, taking Angel deeper, deeper, and Angel grit
his teeth, closed his eyes, because he needed Spike to tell him; he needed
Spike to tell him—
“You know what the difference is between you and me?” Spike said.
Angel knew them all.
“I don’t care,” Spike said. “I wasn’t good enough, and I don’t care.”
“Don’t,” Angel warned.
“I just loved her. That was all.”
Los Angeles, 2005
“You actually think they love you,” Angelus said.
“Fuck hell, now really?” Spike said.
“No, it’s amazing,” Angelus said. “You really think they care. You—oh,
don’t tell me. This is too rich. You think you have friends.”
“Can’t you manage to keep a soul in you for any length of time?” Spike
said. “How’ve you gone and lost it now?”
“It would be sweet,” Angelus said. “Except it’s sad.”
It was a Vengeance Demon. Angel—brainless shit he was—hadn’t saved her son,
so the demon had wished his soul out, and now Angelus had approximately a
week of havoc to wreak—he was guessing here—before the soul got shoved back
in. Perfect way to torture Angel really, and Angelus planned to make it
good. He wondered just how much of Angel’s little life he could utterly
destroy before the soul got wished back in.
He could do a number on Ash Agency. It wasn’t that Angelus was so keen on
the business angle of things—though Wolfram and Hart really had been more
his style than Angel’s. It just meant so much to them, their little
Angel Investigations 2.0, and Angelus itched to take it down—everything
they had made since the destruction of L.A.
But first—oh, but first—there was Spike. The poor little bastard was so
vulnerable, so weak, a vampire with a soul.
Angelus hated those.
“Hang on a mo’.” Dragging on his cigarette, Spike walked across his shitty
apartment. “I’ll just call the Agency. Warn them and such.”
“Very funny,” said Angelus, still near the door.
“It won’t take a sec.” Spike took his cigarette out of his mouth, picked up
Angelus came across the room, half a second flat, grabbed the receiver from
Spike, and broke it on the table. “You’re not calling anyone.”
Spike frowned down at the phone. “Now what’d you go and do that for?”
“You’re thinking of her, aren’t you. Those wide eyes, full of tears, when I
fuck her, and later she finds out it wasn’t Angel.”
Still scowling, Spike puffed on his cigarette. “I don’t think Illyria will
really care. You know, she’s not so discerning when it comes to—”
Angelus pulled the cigarette from Spike’s mouth, flicking it to the floor.
“I’m not talking about Illyria.”
Spike looked down at the cigarette. “Careful. You’ll start a fire.”
“Nina,” Angelus said, leaning in.
“Oh, her.” Spike moved out of Angelus’s space, picking up the cigarette
from the floor and stubbing it in the tray on the table. “Have you thought
about, I don’t know, getting another act? Because the one where you
terrorize the blonde and taunt her with soullessness—” Spike shrugged. “Strangely,
I feel like it’s all been done before.”
Angelus crossed his arms and watched him. “You really do care about her.”
“Nina?” Frowning at the stubbed cigarette, Spike patted down his jacket,
looking for a fresh one. “Not really. She didn’t even give me the corner
“No. She gave that to Angel.”
“Giant poofter.” At last finding one, Spike pulled out another cigarette.
“I mean, if you ask me. Which you’re going to, knowing you. Look, can we
get on with this? ‘M a bit busy right now—things to do, people to warn.”
“Illyria?” was all Angelus said.
“Head case, that one.” Spike lit the cigarette. “Completely nutters.”
“You even care for her.”
“Are you off your nut?” Waving his cigarette around, Spike looked
incredulously at Angelus. “You’ve really lost your touch, mate.”
“And then there’s Angel.”
Spike shoved the cigarette back in and started smoking furiously.
“They all love him best,” Angelus said. “Doesn’t that just kill you?”
Stomping over to the kitchen, Spike started slamming open drawers, throwing
the doors on cabinets. “Where do I keep them? ‘S a bloody stake somewhere
“You’re not going to stake me.”
Spike whirled around and stomped back into the living room, going toward
the hall. Angelus put a hand out to stop him. “Let me by,” Spike said.
“Left my stakes in the bedroom.”
“You’re not going to stake me,” Angelus said, very slowly, “because you
care about me too.”
Spike barked a laugh. “Oh, that’s rich.”
“But you do,” Angelus said, and pushed him. Spike stumbled back, and
Angelus came forward. “You think that I don’t know? You think that I don’t
watch you, the way you look at me? You think that Angel doesn’t
“That you’re crazy? Sorry, mate, I—”
Angelus leaned in. “You think that he doesn’t think of it, all the ways
I’ve fucked you? You think that’s not what he’s thinking, all the time,
when he looks back at you, when you fight? Why do you think I never touch
“We touch,” Spike said. “We touch all the time. Like this.” His fist flew
up directly under Angelus’s jaw, and Angelus’s head slammed back.
Spike made to move away, but Angelus grabbed him, slammed him against the
wall. “Well, okay,” Spike said, punching him in the eye. “If it’s what you
“You have no idea.” Angelus threw out his leg, tripping Spike, slamming him
to the floor.
They rolled around, crashed into the cardboard box that held Spike’s tiny
television. It came smashing down—the NES, the controllers, the bottles
upon empty bottles of what once held beer. Spike broke one and held it in
Angelus’s face; Angelus laughed.
“Why do you even pretend to be a man?” Angelus grabbed his wrist, twisted
it away as Spike tried to slice the broken glass down his face. “Why are
you even trying?”
“Someone has to.” Spike dropped the glass, punching Angelus in the face
again with his other arm. “You’re sure not going to, giant poof like you.”
“Is it for them?” Angelus kicked him in the stomach, bringing Spike down
again. He climbed on top of him. “Your friends? You think they think
you’re worth something?”
“Worth eighty bucks.” Spike rolled on top of him. “Game of kittens.”
Bringing out his fangs, Angelus leaned up, nipped Spike’s ear. It almost
came off when Spike jerked away, and blood poured from the side of Spike’s
head. “Or is it for her?” Angelus said. Spike had leapt away; now they were
back on their feet, slowly circling. “Tell me, Spike, is it for Buffy? Is
that why you play at being hero?”
“Sorry, I can’t hear you.” Spike was in fangs now, too. “Ear must’ve been
Angelus lunged, brought him up against the wall, Spike small and plastered
between the hard spaces of drywall and Angelus’s hips. “Or is it—just a
little bit—for me?” Angelus asked, and slowly circled his hips.
“I’m sorry.” Spike blinked, phasing back to human form. “Are you still talking?
I’ve lost the thread.”
Angelus leaned in, lips close to Spike’s good ear, fangs just brushing it.
“Tell me, Spike, is it for me? Don’t tell me you don’t want to impress
me—just a little. You want to prove you’re better. You always did.”
“One day when you’re better, and haven’t gone off your meds, we’ll talk
about your self-esteem issues. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to—”
Angelus peeled him off the wall and threw him across the room.
“Bloody ow.” Spike brought his hand to the side of his face, brought his
hand away, and looked at it. “Scraped my bad ear, you did.”
Standing over him, Angelus said, “You need me, don’t you. I’m the only one
who knows all of you. Everything you are.”
Spike just looked incredulous. “Are you a psychoanalyst now? Because I
preferred it when you were just plain—”
“You need me, William.” Angelus’s voice was soft. “The sad part is, Angel’s
never going to need you. No one is.”
Spike’s leg lashed out, bringing him down. The tussled for a while, trading
blow for blow, slick with blood and bruises, cuts and scratches, until
Angelus had Spike’s jacket off, and was tugging on his jeans.
Spike burst into sudden laughter. “Are we really going to do this?”
“You want it, don’t you?” Angelus said, jerking on the jeans so hard the
button popped. “You want it from Angel all the time. Too bad he
never gives it to you.”
Spike just laughed again. “So, without your soul, you’re just a horny
“Want to know why he never gives it to you?” Angelus worked Spike’s jeans
off, bit down on Spike’s neck, holding him in place with fangs.
“Because he’s a repressed tosser who doesn’t—”
Spike squirmed, and Angelus held him down until the jeans were all the way
off. Spike’s shirt was already in tatters. “Because, for some strange
reason—maybe it was the way that I was raised—I have all these thoughts
on sex.” Angelus wrapped his hand around Spike’s cock. “That’s why I’m
going to fuck you, and he can’t.”
“Oh my.” Spike’s eyelashes fluttered. “Are you going to fuck me? I
thought we were just having a chat.”
Angelus kept his knee on Spike’s thigh and leaned close in to Spike’s good
ear, hand wrapping around Spike’s cock. “Angel doesn’t like to touch anyone
he doesn’t care about.”
Spike fluttered his eyelashes some more. “Oh, God, no. Don’t put that big cock
in me! I’m not sure I could take it if you rip me wide open
without even caring about me. Help! Help! Can I have a fag while
you’re at it?” he added in afterthought. “You usually take a while.”
“Spike, Spike.” Angelus squeezed Spike’s cock, with his other hand
unfastening his own jeans. “You seem to forget. Remember what I’m like?” He
leaned in again. “I’m really really good.”
“At rape and torture? Yes, you’re the grandmaster.” Spike gyrated his hips
beneath him. “Now about that fag . . .”
“You think I don’t know you,” Angelus said. “You think I can’t get to you.”
“Oh, did I need to protest more?” Spike shimmied his hips again. “Don’t
rape me, don’t plunder my virgin arse, don’t put your big things in my
little rosebud cunt—like that?”
“You think I haven’t been watching.”
“Or was it more praise you wanted? Yes, Daddy, your cock is the biggest,
you’re the only man for my twat, no one plugs an arse like—”
Angelus phased back into human form, and kissed him. He kissed him long and
slow, tongue licking at the tender underside of Spike’s bottom lip, gentle
and hungry and not the least bit forceful. Spike’s mouth fell open in
surprise, and Angelus kissed him more deeply—wetly, softly, and then began
to gently stroke Spike’s cock. He pulled his mouth away.
Spike’s eyes were wide as skies, and very very blue. “What . . . ?” he
“I know just how to break you,” Angelus said, and kissed him again.
This time Spike struggled, just like Angelus wanted, thrashing under his
mouth, pushing him off and rolling away. “You’re bloody fucking mental,”
“You did forget,” Angelus said.
Spike swung at his face, but Angel caught his wrist, twisting. He dragged
him across the room. “I’m sure you keep them somewhere,” he said, and
jerked Spike down the hall.
“What are you—”
“Of course,” Angelus said. They were in the bedroom, and Angelus went
straight for the nightstand.
“No,” Spike said. “No, you bloody don’t—”
“But Spike.” Angelus’s voice was innocent, and handcuffs dangled from his
hand. “You love them.”
Spike punched him in the face then, but as they grappled, Angelus pushed
the metal down on Spike’s wrist, and clicked it with a cold, inevitable
sound. He looked around for a suitable spot, decided the bed would do, and
cuffed Spike to the headboard.
“Alright, fine,” Spike said. “You win. Rape m, split me open, make me
scream, yadda yadda. Just don’t expect me to—bloody hell.” He threw his
head back, cords on his neck standing out, as Angelus held Spike’s hips
down and licked Spike’s cock, opened up his mouth and took him—down and
down—took Spike all the way down his throat, long and wet, expert and very,
very gentle. “Don’t. You fucking don’t—”
Lashing out with a leg, Spike kicked him hard enough to bring Angelus off
his cock. Angelus just stood, and went back to the nightstand. “My God,” he
said, in mock surprise. “It’s full of toys!”
“Fuck you,” Spike said.
“Maybe.” Angelus pilfered through the drawer, taking out the nylon rope,
the lube, a few other things. There weren’t actually nearly as many things
in there as Angel liked to keep—Angel was usually much more patient than
Spike was, really. “Come on now, baby. Let me tie your legs.”
Spike thrashed and kicked him, but Angelus positioned him face down, tied
Spike’s legs to either bedpost. Even if Spike wasn’t as big of a fan as
Angel, there was a reason he had an expensive four-poster in this shitty
apartment. Once Spike was tied, Angelus’s hand settled on the firm curve of
“Go ahead,” Spike said, his voice muffled. “I don’t care. I’ll fucking love
it. I always do. You’re hilarious.”
“Yes,” was all Angelus said. “I don’t think you’re going to laugh.” Then he
leaned down, and his lips brushed the crease of Spike’s ass.
“I thought so.” Angelus spread Spike’s cheeks, moving father in. He circled
Spike’s hole with a careful tongue, and when he began to press in, he did
“You fucking mangy slobbering cunt-faced—”
Angelus came back up to whisper, “Shh,” and pushed in with his tongue.
Spike moved crazily on the bed, and Angelus had to hold him down, hands
hard on Spike’s hips while he pushed his tongue in, thrusting, pushing
deeper, then coming back out to circle gently.
“You take that nicely,” Angelus said into the curve of Spike’s pale ass.
“You fucking freak.”
“Did Buffy do this for you?” He gave Spike’s hole a kiss. “Has anyone?”
That did it, really. Spike managed, then, to break the headboard, get his
arms free, pushing Angelus off. “Never took you for an arse-licker,” he
said, as he furiously worked the ropes.
Angelus laughed. “Just a little tenderness, and you’re in a temper like a
child. It’s almost too easy.”
Spike was working on the last rope. Angelus stood up, unhooked the
handcuffs—Spike swung wildly, but he was still tied down. Angelus put a
knee on his back, and recuffed him to the bedframe, the mattress moved a
Spike thrashed, went still. “What are you going to do? You wanna stake me?
“Oh, William.” Angelus put a hand in his hair. “You know me better than
that. What do you think I’m going to do?”
“Dunno,” Spike said. “You’ve got freakier than you were.”
Angelus stroked his hair. “I’m going to make love to you all night long, silly.
I’m going to be so, so sweet to you.”
“Oh. Is that all.” Spike huffed. “I’ll just lay back and enjoy it then,
“You can do anything you want,” Angelus said, large hand pulling down the
soft hairs at the base of Spike’s neck, trailing down the pretty, pretty
knobs of his spine, the soft, firm expanse of his back. There were tiny
freckles there. “Anything at all. But all the while you’ll know how Angel
really feels. And when he gets his soul back, it’s going to be so
much worse than if I had just raped your body.”
“You think?” Spike jerked futilely.
“Oh, yes.” Angelus was stroking him now, long and firm; at first Spike was
stiff beneath his hands, but gradually he relaxed. Angelus laid down little
kisses, all the way down his spine. “Because he’ll never mention it,” he
said, once he had again reached the curve of Spike’s ass. “You know he
won’t. You know he can’t. He can’t apologize, and for six months, he won’t
even be able to look at you. And when at last he can, you’ll know that
he’ll be thinking of this moment. He’ll think of all the ways I made love
to you, as though I really cared for you, all the sweet things I’m going to
say to you, all the sweet ways your body moved against mine—he’ll look at
you, and loathe you for it. But you won’t.”
“I will,” said Spike. “I already loathe him. I loathe you.”
“No,” Angelus said, spreading Spike’s cheeks. “You don’t loathe him. And
when you remember this, you will treasure it, because you’ve always wanted
him to touch you this way. He knows it, and you know that he would never do
it. He’ll despise you that much more for it, and you know what’s even
better? The way he’s going to despise himself. Now, where was I?”
“Arse licking, you bloody freak.”
“Right.” Angelus leaned down and kissed him again, right between the
cheeks. When he used his tongue again, Spike was stiff beneath him—he was
moving oddly, as Angelus held him down. Angelus could tell Spike was trying
to figure out whether fighting or giving in was the best form of defiance,
knowing he would at last give in, because Spike was Spike: it felt good. He
“Do you know what the difference is between you and Angel?” Angelus said,
lifting his head from the wet mess of Spike’s tender hole.
Air came into Spike’s throat in a gasp. “I’m better looking?”
“You don’t care that it’s me that’s giving you this. You just want it, and
you’re going to take it.”
“You’re the butt muncher,” Spike said.
“He wouldn’t take it on a silver platter,” Angelus said. “But you—you take
this kind of things wherever you can get it. Don’t you, love?” He kissed
Spike again, knowing that it was true.
“He was your true love,” Spike said. “Funny. For the longest time, I
thought that it was Buffy.”
“I loved Buffy,” Angel said.
“’Course you did,” Spike said. “I loved Dru.”
“We never get the girls.”
“He did.” Spike put his hand on his pocket, but didn’t take a smoke out. “A
lot of people loved him.”
They were standing at Connor Reilly’s grave. It grew green there, but only
because the graveyard crew had covered it with living sod. Angel could
still smell the soil; it smelled like it had when he had first opened his
eyes, buried in his own grave. It was still fresh, filled with living
things, and decay.
“He loved a lot of people back,” Angel said.
His son had been eighty-eight years old, when he died. Angel had three
“Wonder where he learned it,” Spike said.
“It doesn’t stop,” Angel said. “It goes on and on and on.”
Spike put his hand on Angel’s shoulder. “Wearing out, old man?”
“No,” said Angel.
“And that’s the worst part.” Spike’s hand slid down Angel’s arm, but he
didn’t take his hand, letting go instead. “Let’s go.”
After all this time, they were back in England. Connor had lived near the
Slayer facility Buffy had founded; he had trained there and then become a
trainer, going out on missions in his younger days, supervising them in
elder years. His youngest daughter had been Chosen at fourteen. Her name
had been Hope.
She had died at the age of forty-four.
Angel and Spike had rented a cottage; it was the only place available on
the country-side in Wiltshire that wasn’t taken by the demons, dozen
families and ten times a dozen girls that showed up for the funeral. Angel
and Spike didn’t live together, but they hadn’t bothered renting out more
than the single bedroom place. There were quilts and white-washed walls,
rooster decorations; Angel hated it; he hated it; he hated everything.
“You’ll hurt the roosters’ feelings,” Spike had said, and made crude jokes
about the cocks.
Spike rarely smoked these days, but he did so like a chimney, once they got
into in England. Angel thought he would start up again when they got back
from the grave. He also thought that Spike would head out for a drink and
leave him alone, for once; after all these years, he knew how Spike
But Spike knew him too, and stayed; when they got back to the cottage he
took his coat off carefully—brown now, the black leather finally having
fallen apart. He folded it and put it on the table.
Angel sat on the over-stuffed chair by the lamp and didn’t turn it on. He
knew what Spike would say about him sitting in the dark. He just couldn’t
bring himself to care.
But Spike didn’t say anything, just watched him, head tilted—that soft,
thoughtful look he got when he thought other people weren’t looking. Angel
wished that he would go away.
Moving deeper into the room, Spike didn’t turn the lights on either.
Instead he got out his suitcase, began rummaging around. Sliding something
shiny in his pocket, he came over to the chair. Bent to touch Angel’s
knees, then pulled them apart, kneeling between them.
“Not in the mood,” Angel said.
“Yes. You are.” Spike took the knife out of his pocket.
“I said that I don’t want to.”
Spike played with the knife. “I know.” Leaning in, he began unbuttoning
Angel’s shirt. “I would hit you, but you’d just sit there.”
“Spike,” Angel said.
“I hate to use a knife. Man doesn’t need nearly as many tools as he thinks
he does. Or, vampires don’t. But I know you like them.” Spike’s hands slid
in Angel’s shirt, opening it up. It was smooth and young and dead, the way
it always was, unmoving.
Slamming the knife down on the table beside the chair, Spike stood up
swiftly. “The fuck, Angel. It’s not like you’re the only one who—you’re not
the only one.”
Angel looked up. “You should put the blade in a flame. I . . . it’s
“Oh. Right.” Spike blinked. “You’re so picky.” His hand slid down into his
“There are candles in the trunk.”
Frowning, Spike went over to the trunk, opened in, took out the candles.
Brought them back and set a fat one on the table. He pulled his lighter
from his pocket and lit it up. Near the flame, his face looked ghostly.
He’d let his hair go back to honey-colored.
“Bloody poofter. Bringing candles.” Spike’s voice was like the
candle-light, soft and warm, lighting up the dark. “You knew.”
“I thought we might,” was all that Angel said.
“All right.” Spike put the knife in the fire, his other hand opening
Angel’s shirt. “Right across the heart?” He turned the blade.
“If you keep talking, we’re not doing anything.”
“Right,” Spike said again, and drew the knife down Angel’s chest.
The blood came down; Angel’s hips came up; air he’d drawn to talk came out,
and the grief went in.
“Again?” Spike ran his thumb across the blood, burnt flesh, Angel’s still,
“What do you think?”
“Okay.” Spike put the blade against the candle-flame, then again against
He did it again and again and again—the blade, the blaze, the fire and the
pain, and by the time Angel’s chest was covered over red and burned black,
Angel was fully hard. Spike pressed his fangs to Angel’s non-existent pulse
and said, “I could cut your heart out.”
Angel twisted under him. “That would be . . . interesting.”
Spike’s tongue lapped down over Angel’s collar bone, down along the blood
and closer to his heart. “I could pour sawdust in your veins.”
“Shit.” Angel’s hips bucked, unexpectedly.
“I could fuck you with a stake.”
“Are you ready for it now?” Spike’s hand finally came down, found his
crotch; his bloody lips moved back up to Angel’s ear. His hand squeezed on
Angel’s cock. “I could cut this off.”
Angel twisted again, pushing up into Spike’s hand. “I’m ready for it.”
“Good.” Spike let go. “I don’t really want to cut it off. It’s a bit of
Letting himself be pulled up, Angel stood, took off his clothes. Spike
stripped down too, and Angel went back to the trunk. As Angel rummaged
around, Spike hopped on the bed, wiggled around, making a show of it. Angel
didn’t pay him any mind.
“Come on,” said Spike. “All that blood isn’t enough?”
“Don’t get cocky.” Angel stood, tossed him a little bottle.
Spike just sighed. “You always were a lube man. Come on up.”
Closing the trunk, Angel came on up, his chest still a mess of blood and
burned flesh. “Don’t play around,” he warned.
“What are you talking about?” Spike spread Angel’s legs. “I never play. I
just like to get it messy.”
“Just do it, Spike.”
“Yes, Daddy.” Pouring the oil on his fingers, Spike rubbed his hands
together, pushed his hand between Angel’s thighs. “What nasty things you
want me to say this time?”
“Nothing.” Angel shifted, getting used to the feel of Spike’s long slender
fingers inside his body. “Don’t say anything.”
“I,” Spike began, thought better of it, and stopped. Pulling his fingers
out of Angel’s hole, he pulled up on his legs, hands under his knees.
“Budge up,” he said, positioning himself.
“Do it, already.”
“Getting there,” said Spike, and pushed inside.
Angel had done it before, had another man inside him, but Angelus usually
told the truth—he had some strange thoughts about sex, and this . . . it
always felt like someone having power over him. It felt like not being in
control; he didn’t like it. He wasn’t good enough; he didn’t deserve
to give it up—
He never deserved to give up—
Spike put his wet hands on either side of Angel’s head. “Stop thinking.”
“Okay,” Angel said.
“You can cut me up after.” Spike pulled out, pushed in slowly, agonizing
slow. “Make you feel better.”
“Okay,” Angel said.
“You can do the sawdust thing.” Spike rocked his hips, and Angel looked
away. “If you want. I always wanted to try it. Not the cock thing, though.”
Spike’s fangs dragged down his face, just the tips, and so sharp that Angel
didn’t even feel it until he began to bleed. “That’s just you.”
“Okay.” Angel’s hands settled on Spike’s hips, yanking in, moving Spike
“Fuck.” Spike bit his lips with fangs. “Jesus fuck.”
“I told you not to dick around.” Angel pulled him in again, harder.
“Christ. I forgot how you are. Hold on a mo’.” Bracing himself with an arm,
Spike shifted his weight—shallower angle, but he could go faster this way,
and Angel knew he’d just have to lie there and take it, take it, take it.
He wanted it; he wanted it so badly, but Spike—
Spike, Jesus Christ. Angel didn’t know how many times Spike had done this,
just like this, for Connor.
Angel squeezed his eyes closed, and turned his face away.
“Thought I told you not to think,” Spike said, because by now he could
almost always follow Angel’s train of thought.
“You loved him,” Angel said. Spike was hard inside of him, and despite the
oil the burn was painful, unpleasant, and still not enough. “Say you loved
“I loved him,” Spike said immediately, and thrust in, because it was easy
for him. It had always been so easy for him. “I loved your son. Just like
this. Like this.”
“He loved you,” Angel said, but Spike must have known what he really meant.
Angel supposed Spike had always known, at least a little bit.
Spike wrapped his hand around Angel’s cock, jerked him and bit him until he
came. Spike wasn’t far behind.
Then they lay there, the room thick with scents of blood and come and burnt
flesh, but not sweat, never sweat. Spike got up and rifled for his
cigarettes. “Bring me one,” Angel said, and stared up at the ceiling.
A box waved in Angel’s face; Angel slid a cigarette out, put it in him
mouth, waited for Spike to light it.
“You know what the difference is, between you and me?” Spike said, lighting
Angel took the cigarette out of his mouth, blew out smoke. “No.”
“I don’t either,” Spike said.
They lay in bed and smoked a while, then Angel took the knife, and did what
Spike had promised him. The sheets were soaked with blood and come, by the
end of it, the bed full of the knowledge that love would never be enough,
except for when it was.
| Fiction Index | Home
Page | Back |