blood and smoke
It’s moments like these Spike really misses cigarettes.
Lying in Angel’s bed, the glow of a strange orange sun on his face, soot from a hundred fires drifting through the gape of smashed windows — he’d loot every store in L.A. for a smoke. If there were any left to loot.
Then Angel’s hands part his thighs and his fangs slip in, and the sated feeling scarpers with the tide-pull of his blood rushing down Angel’s throat.
“No touching,” Angel growls as Spike’s fingers curl in his hair, but Spike can’t help it. He has to do something with his hands.