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On the Other Foot, or Hand, Whatever

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He calls Angel “poofter”, “pansy”, and “nancy boy”, grinning and daring him to respond. In the old days, saying that would lead to Angelus beating seven shades of shit out of him, or else sucking him off until Spike begged for more – sometimes both. These days, Angel takes it without complaining more than by rolling his eyes. So he bloody well should.

The first time was one of those lazy wet afternoons that London was so good at. The girls had been dining out at the home of Lord Treville, and were probably still working their way through all five of his brats; the two of them were stuck in the hotel room, waiting languidly for sunset. Then, suddenly, without a word, Angelus got up, walked over, and stuck his hand inside William’s trousers.

“Why don’t we make the time pass more quickly, Willy?”

“What are you–”

“No need for conversation, kitten. You just stand there and enjoy yourself.”

At which Angelus dropped to his knees. And despite William’s astonished protests – together with a certain amount of indignation at being called Willy (let alone kitten) – he proceeded to put his mouth firmly around William’s cock and suck until William’s knees buckled and all he could do was clench his fingers in Angelus’ hair and try not to scream.

The Practical Science department has a whole lot of useful inventions, such as the weird blue chemical that melts paper. Spike stands there, fascinated, watching Angel’s desk dripping, and waiting for Angel to get back from whichever nobby evil client he’s meeting with now.

Angel’s reaction, when he arrives, is a growled “What on earth?” followed by him grabbing Spike by the collar and moving him to the door with an “Out. Now.” Spike sticks around long enough to hear Angel yell “Fuck!” and kick his desk across the room – and then ambles to the lift.

Not a bad response, all things considered, but hardly as dramatic as it could’ve been.

“You’re going to fuck me so hard we both see stars, William.”

“I’m– No, I… I mean, isn’t there… I’m not–”

“Not what? Not good enough to manage it? Well, don’t worry, lad. I can teach you – that’s what sires are for. Just relax.”

His hands hadn’t left William’s cock for minutes now, and he was having trouble thinking clearly. He didn’t want to, not exactly, but Angelus was hard to reason with, and had already got William off several times in the last few days, and, God, his hands, and if William said no he might, and, and, his hands, God… William’s cock jumped in Angelus’ grasp, and Angelus smiled.

“That’s my boy.” He removed his shirt, then his trousers, and lay down across the bed. “Fuck me, nice and slow, in the arse. And make it good.”

William shut his eyes and pictured Drusilla’s breasts, Drusilla’s waist, Angelus’ chest, no, Drusilla’s quim, anything, to keep his cock hard and his mind off what he was doing. Angelus gasped as he pushed in, and then got back to a quiet, running commentary of dirty talk and instructions. The muscles in his back rippled, and William shut his eyes again.

“Go away.”

“Make me.”

“Go away, Spike.”

Spike puts his feet up on Angel’s coffee table, raises an eyebrow, and grins.

One evening, in a house in Lyons, Angelus put down the book he was reading, pushed Spike up against the fireplace, and started sucking him off. Darla looked over, gave a brief smile, and then came over and sat in the armchair next to them. She watched them intently, studiously, until Spike had to shut his eyes to block her out.

His tongue was flicking the end of Spike’s cock… It was intoxicating.

He’d told Angelus no once – exactly once – had told him firmly that, no, he wasn’t interested in fucking him or in doing anything else at all with him. Angelus had thrown him across the room, then wrapped a hand round his cock and almost made him come. Almost. Then he’d thrown him across the room again. Six almosts later, and Spike was begging, pleading, entreating him to touch him some more, please, anything, he needed to come, please.

He still didn’t want it. Never did – but Angelus was in charge, and if he told Spike to come, Spike was bloody well going to come, and like it.

Spike leaves the shower, still dripping, and walks a trail of water across Angel’s carpet. Then he opens Angel’s fridge, and starts raiding the B-negative.

Angel comes out of his bedroom, shuts his eyes, and says, in a pained voice, “Will you please put some clothes on?”

“Busy.” He turns, mug of blood in hand, and asks, “Poshest apartment in the city, and you don’t have any beer?”

“I’m in charge of a law firm, Spike. I don’t have time for keg parties. There are more important things for me to tackle.”

Spike snorts a laugh. “Poofter.”

Angel glares. Spike calmly finishes off the blood.

The last time – back before he knew it was the last time – was in Italy, waiting out the daylight in a cave near the city. Angelus had called him William, Spike had complained, and the next thing he knew, Angelus was getting up off his knees and saying “Thanks for that, William.”

Then they lay back and discussed various ways they could finish off the Immortal, once and for all. Preferably involving dismemberment.

Four days later came the gypsies. And they never fucked in Sunnydale; Spike didn’t ask him why.

There’s an army of vengeful dwarves outside Angel’s office, and he finally loses his temper.

“Why did you let them into the building in the first place, you moron?!”

Spike sits on Angel’s desk, smirking. “Well, you’re a popular man. They seemed quite interested in talking to you, and I know how much of a people person you are.”


“After all, that’s what the caring, sharing, modern workplace is all about, innit?”

“Spike! They’re trying to kill me and sell my ashes on the black market!”

“Yeah, they mentioned that bit…”

Angel drags him off the desk and throws him into the window. “You are SO INFURIATING!” he growls. “You–” And he grabs Spike’s shoulders and kisses him, hard.

Only took a discount-sized army.

Angel stops, looking uncertain. “Err. Sorry. I didn’t–”

Spike raises an eyebrow. “About bloody time,” he murmurs – and pulls Angel in again.