Of all the things Spike ever hoped for in his unlife, all the things he wanted—he’s still not sure what to do about this one. In concept, it’s bloody brilliant. When he’d first done it, concerned and desperate, it’d been a way to keep them both sane. The potential for insanity—at least that kind of insanity—is long gone, though. And Angel’s still here.
With chains ’round his wrists already and a hopeful expression.
“Er.” It’s not an elegant sound. “I thought we’d been over this before. Talked.” For a guy who talks as much as Spike knows he does, having a meaningful conversation with Angel is still a new and disturbing thing.
Angel’s eyes flicker downwards and they go wide. “But you want it.” Even his voice has changed, gone high and sweet with just a hint of the brogue that only comes out for this.
“Angel, I’m a bloody vampire. I’m always horny.” Spike irritably turns away from the bed, distracting himself by pawing through the clothes stacked on his dresser. Rosa’d left them, the way she always does, for the sweet boys who live on the top floor. It’s a kind of mothering appreciation of the ‘two, brave boys that came to her rescue’ Spike vaguely recognizes and often feels guilty for. He likes it, though. He likes her. Makes sure none of the toughs in the area bother her anymore, and he’d continue to even if she stops her stint as their maid.
“But ... ” Angel’s damned near whimpering. Naked skin shifts on satin sheets—no soul is gonna stop Spike from his creature comforts—the clink of chain telling Spike that Angel’s kneeling now. Exposing himself. He doesn’t need to turn around to see—he already knows that Angel’s gorgeous. That the lines of pink on his cock are already gone, faded to nothing. He knows, because he’d made sure Angel drank human that night, to make those lines disappear.
Part of him so desperately wants to give in. Good, clean, vampy fun. No worries or guilt, no concern about breaking anything. Except that’s part of the problem. Is Angel really getting better, or is he so broken that nothing Spike does can hurt him more?
“But nothing. I’m not playing this game anymore.” He doesn’t turn around, knowing Angel will read the glare in the stance of his shoulders, the wide spacing of his feet. “I’m not gonna be responsible for you. I can’t. Fuck, I can barely be responsible for myself.”
More clinks, and the mattress squeaks slightly as Angel stands up. Arms chilly from the metal ’round the wrists encircle his waist. “That was kinda the point, you know.”
He sounds so reasonable. The little, innocent quality to his voice is gone again, as if it never was, and he just sounds like Angel. Infuriatingly calm and superior, with hints of things Spike doesn’t know how to read anymore. “What is? To get your jollies off?”
Angel kisses his neck. Gestures like this, affectionate when there’s never been before, still throw him off. He doesn’t tense and try to beat Angel up for the presumption anymore, though. “No. To get our jollies off. Come on. Where’s the harm?”
“I’m not gonna be your sodding addiction.”
The words are bitterer than an ocean full of salt. Dripping with lye, acid leaving trails long after the sound of them fades from the air. “You aren’t.”
“Oh no?” Spike yanks himself free, whirling around to glare. “Christ, this isn’t anything different than before, is it? I’ve always been whatever you wanted of me, whether I wanted it or not. And this is just one more role you’ve forced me into.”
Almost, Spike wants to look for the board that’s smacked Angel’s head, but he’s too angry. No, not angry. He’s not angry. He’s just sick of games. And he wants. Wants what the soul tells him he shouldn’t have, what his own sense of self tells him is going too far. But by the G-d he knows is there, he wants it.
“That’s ... okay, that is how it started,” Angel says slowly. “With the me being insane part of the equation.”
“You’re always insane.”
“And you’re always a smart-ass. Shut up and let me finish,” Angel snaps back, steam rolling Spike’s attempt to return to the banter they indulge in when not at home. It drives Illyria up a wall, which is probably half the reason they still do it. “Right. Yeah. In the beginning, yeah, I needed it. I needed to ... get out of my head. And you needed to take care of me, so I don’t want to hear crap about you not getting anything out of this.”
Spike glares back, defiant. “Never said I didn’t enjoy it.” So yeah, that comes out a bit sulking. He can’t help it. Angel like this always makes him feel like ... oh.
“I could shove you against the wall and fuck you. Fuck you dry until you were bleeding and screaming and coming all at once. And you’d love it. Until about five seconds afterwards, when you’d go back to barely tolerating me.”
Spike tries to keep from feeling sheepish. “So, this is just a way to keep me from buggering off?”
Angel gives him a look. It’s ... not the look Spike’s expecting. “I’m not addicted to you, Spike. I’m not here because there’s no one else to go to. I like being here. I like that for ten minutes, I can be someone who doesn’t have to deal with the crap I deal with during the day. Night. Whatever.”
“And you like my cock.” What, he’s never claimed to be anything but a bastard. Even with the soul, he’s pretty damned evil. “You like the way I make you feel, all little and out of control.”
Usually, that’s a cue for Angel to look like he’s shrunk a foot and gotten skinnier, somehow, with his eyes huge. Now Angel remains, well, Angel. And that’s really the proof Spike finds he’s looking for. “I do.”
Silent is the accusation that Spike likes it just as much. And he does, he’s known that. It’s just that he wasn’t sure if he should want it. It’s not a question of right or wrong but experience: for most of his life, Spike’s lovers were with him because they needed something from him that he couldn’t help but give. So Angel can’t be different, right? He’d tolerated Spike with unconcealed dislike for the past year. Why should his feelings change now the dragon is dead?
Now Spike wonders what else got slain with the giant lizard. And he feels foolish. He hates feeling foolish. Add in Angel’s damned smirk, and ...
Spike lashes out with a backhanded slap, grinning with unholy glee. “Now, not exactly sure I heard this right,” he says, tension leaving with every deliberately twisted word, his body returning to a posture he’d given up back in Sunnydale. It feels good. He thinks he should probably adopt it permanently, especially since Angel shrinks back from it even more. “But I think you were talking back to me. Weren’t you.”
Angel’s done that shift where he’s suddenly a scrawny kid despite nearly 200 pounds of preternatural muscle. “No,” he quavers. There’s a grin lurking in his eyes, too—Spike’s not sure why he’s never seen it before. He also doesn’t really care. He sees it now.
Spike moves forward until Angel tumbles back onto the bed, climbing on after him. “I think you’re a little liar. I think you’re a spoiled brat that needs to think about someone other than himself for a while. Good thing I got the perfect candidate for you.” Angel’s on his back, panting, legs spread and arms creeping above his head. He’s so very eager. Spike reaches out to tug Angel’s cock roughly. The moan is beautiful. “Me. Not gonna think about anything but me, get it?”
Spike grabs the drop cloth they use and drapes it over the bed before taking up the length of chain connected to Angel’s cuffs and looping it around the iron-design in the bedposts. Angel’s arms are pulled taut, making his chest stretch. His nipples are the most perfect targets and Spike twists them viciously. “Gonna punish you now, baby. Gotta remind you what happens to bad boys.”
Angel whimpers, struggling weakly. “No! I’ll be good! I promise.”
Spike bites over Angel’s left nipple, fangs piercing the skin so blood wells up. “What’d I say about talking back?” he asks, silky smooth and deadly as a shuriken.
“I’m—I’m not s’ppose to.” The brogue is back, complete with a child’s lisp. “Gotta be good.”
“Yes. You do. But that’s okay, baby. Daddy’s here to remind you how you should be.”
The toys are in their box like always. Spike chooses a few at random and sets out to make pretty patterns on Angel’s stretched out skin. Blood and precome flow from Angel’s body in equal measure, each cut or lash as desired as a caress. More. They know where to go for caresses. It’s finding pain—the right kind of pain—that they need.
“See?” Spike asks eventually. The tip of a leather flogger trails over Angel’s sticky skin, the rest of it bunched into Spike’s fist. “Daddy knows the best way to remind you. Know what he reminds you? Tell me.”
“To be good.” Angel’s not comfortable talking, which is partly why Spike forced it, back when this started. Angel also wasn’t talking at all then, and this was one of the few ways Spike could pressure him to even try. Not that Angel’s very good at dirty talking. “I—I want to be good.”
Spike rolls his eyes and flicks his wrist, watching the line of red form over Angel’s cock. “That was pathetic,” he pronounces, following the red mark with his teeth, broadening it. “I teach you lots of things, Angel. Yeah, I teach you how to be good. What else.”
This discomfort makes his cock throb against Angel’s thigh. “To—to like it,” Angel admits, shame-faced.
“Like what, baby?” Another mark is chased by Spike’s tongue, this one in the valley between Angel’s pecs.
“This, Daddy. Hurting. I l-like it.”
He stutters so good, the lilt underneath making the breathy words even more compelling. “Like bein’ a good boy for Daddy? Letting him take away all the bad from you. Bleed it out of you. Cover your skin with it.”
Angel shudders, nodding fast. “Yes, Daddy please.” It’s bizarre, hearing this big man whimper for his bloody Daddy. It’s also the hottest thing Spike’s ever heard. “Make me good for you. It hurts, Daddy, it hurts so much.”
“And you love it,” Spike says nastily. “You love everything I do to you.”
Angel’s so close to coming now, the need shivering under his skin until Spike can feel it. “Yes, Daddy. Please hurt me more.”
“Legs up,” Spike orders roughly. When Angel needs like this, Spike’s rarely far behind. Oh, they can play for hours, sometimes. And have. But with the argument before and the crap day he’d had before ever coming home—something, it occurs to him, Angel must’ve known—Spike’s ready without the achingly complex foreplay they usually indulge in. “In the air. Now, boy.”
Angel immediately lifts his hips, starting up the steady whimpery-moan that they both know goes straight to Spike’s cock. They don’t need lube. Spike’s cock is covered in blood and anyway, the pain’s half the fun. It’s just line up and push, and then groan as everything becomes right with the world. There’s no doubt or uncertainty here, no concerns or heavy weights upon him. Just tight heat and the utter rightness of hearing Angel groan and beg for more.
They fuck until they’re both screaming for release. Spike reaches between their bodies to grab Angel’s cock, scratching it as he strokes up and down. “Come on, baby,” he gasps, voice more wet breath than sound. “Come. Show me you learned.”
Angel howls when he comes. There are Gaelic words intermixed with formless cries and one day, Spike’s going to figure out just what Angel’s saying so he can translate it. But that’s for later, because he’s too busy feeling Angel convulse even more tightly around his cock, ripping the orgasm from him in a wave that nearly makes him pass out.
When he can see again, he’s laying smack on Angel’s body, still inside with Angel’s wrists still chained. Neither of them mention it. It’s too perfect, basking in the fading warmth.
“So, you know, I don’t want you to think you’re my crack pipe.”
“I’ll give you a damned joint.”
“Ooo. So scared. Syringe?”
“Want another injection, do you?”
That makes Spike push his upper body off of Angel’s. “You’re comparing me to a bloody acid tab?”
“You’d rather I compared you to ’shrooms?”
“Oh, right. That’s it. You need to be sodding spanked till you aren’t sitting for days.”
When Angel grins, Spike grins back. And his lips are already pursed and waiting when Spike leans down for a kiss.