Spike had acquired a pair of handcuffs. Angel didn't know how, or where, but that wasn't the important question. He eyed Spike evaluatingly as Spike stood there dangling the cuffs from one finger, that smirk curling across his mouth.
"You using them on me?" Angel asked.
"No." Spike tossed the cuffs nonchalantly to his Sire. "You're using them on me."
Angel caught the cuffs. They were cold, real metal, not lightweight fake plastic. Spike meant business.
He held his hands out to Angel, wrists side-by-side. He really meant business.
"Now," he said.
Hefting the cuffs, Angel studied Spike's face. Spike looked serious. Angel had no reason to believe he wasn't serious. He frowned.
"Fine, then." He pointed. "There."
Spike hesitated. Angel wondered if this was another of those exercises where Spike refused to do as he was told, just to prove to himself that he could, without being beaten or raped or set on fire, as he likely would have if he'd been dealing with Angelus. But after a moment, Spike went to the place Angel had indicated, next to the footboard, and dropped to his knees, his back to the bed.
"Shirt off," said Angel. Spike shucked his black T-shirt, stripping it off over his head. Angel watched. He was lean, cut, the muscles of his back and abdomen clearly defined. Wiry, coiled strength that could challenge even Angel's solid bulk. Heat pooled in Angel's groin, pulsing. His cock pressed against the zipper of his trousers. Need.
He knew what was happening here. It was another step along a path Spike had set the first time he'd come to Angel's bed. Reconstructive therapy, something like that. He was remaking his relationship with Angel, replacing everything that had happened with Angelus--the brutality, the humiliation, the pain--with what Angel had to give him. Angel was generally happy to oblige--he'd always enjoyed taking advantage of Spike's cleanly constructed body--but this was new. Angel knew what Spike wanted, but he wasn't completely sure he could do it. Not to Spike's specifications.
Spike was looking up at him, eyebrows lifted, an interrogative and slightly impatient look in his sapphire eyes. Angel took a step forward.
"Pants, too. Now, boy."
Spike unbuckled his belt. His eyes locked to Angel's, attention firm and unwavering, a challenge glinting in his eyes. He had looked at Angelus that way, but with more defiance. Daring his Sire to break him. Now, he thought, he dared just the opposite. Dared Angel to walk this path again, but with different intent. Dared Angel to follow Angelus' technique, with Angel's purpose. Angel wasn't sure he was up to it.
Spike's smirk thinned, and Angel knew he'd read his hesitation on his face. Slowly, Spike slid his black jeans down his lean legs. No underwear. Spike never wore underwear. Handy, that. He was erect, his cock hard and curving up toward his stomach.
Angel looked at him, took him in. His skin was so pale as to be almost translucent; Angel could see the blue tracery of veins covering his chest and belly. The hair curling around his cock was nearly black.
Angel stepped toward him. "Turn around," he said. Spike did, the smirk changing again, mocking him. Angel grabbed him by the wrist, a little rougher than necessary, and jerked his hand up toward the footboard. He clicked the cuff into place around his wrist, threaded it through the slats in the bed, then closed the other cuff around Spike's other wrist. Spike stood now facing the bed, wrists bound to the footboard at about waist level. Naked.
Angel's cock had hardened and strained against his zipper. He put his hands on Spike's shoulders, sliding his palms down his arms, back up, across the wings of his shoulder blades. His skin was cool and silken--vampire skin. Like Angel's own. As much as he craved the warmth of a human body, there was something about the texture and temperature of another vampire. The coolness, the fine, silky texture--it was home. Like to like.
He traced a finger down the line of Spike's spine, and Spike shivered under the contact. Angel turned his hand a little, so that the edge of his nail scratched over the pale, translucent skin. Spike shuddered.
"What do you want?" said Angel. He let his hand continue to trace down Spike's body, until he cupped his buttock, squeezing, opening him up a little.
"I want you, you bloody ponce."
Angel slapped him. Hard. The contact left no mark; there was no circulatory function to bring blood to the surface of the skin in response to the sharp contact. But Spike flinched, and then laughed.
Angel didn't laugh. "What do you want?"
"Think I want to waste my lack of breath explaining it?"
Angel hit him again.
"You don't know by now, you great bloody pouf, no point explaining it all."
He jumped again. Angel had big, wide hands, and the sound of his palm striking Spike's ass echoed in the room.
"Could give you point-by-point instructions, I suppose--" This time he broke off at the hard contact, and Angel saw him wince. Angel opened his mouth to apologize, then closed it. That wasn't what Spike wanted, not at all.
Instead of apologizing, Angel lowered his voice to a dark growl. "You want to bleed, boy?"
Spike gasped as Angel struck him again, hard, with his other hand. "Yeah, make me bleed. Make me scream, if you can fucking remember how."
Angel touched him again, this time gently, tracing his fingers over the rounded buttocks, over the places where he had hit Spike before. Spike's skin twitched like an animal's, and he laughed.
Angel ignored this. Instead, he took a step back and began to unbutton his shirt, his eyes fixed to Spike's naked back. He undid his cuffs, pulled off the expensive silk blend shirt and leaned forward to drape it over the footboard, next to where Spike's handcuffs were attached. Spike looked at the shirt, then away, staring resolutely at the opposite wall.
Angel looked at him a moment, taking in the pale, clean lines. Spike was smaller than he was and Angel had taken advantage of that back in the day, when the only thing that had really mattered was dominance, who was on top in more ways than one, though both of them knew damn well the top in their little family was and would always be Darla.
All exercises in domination, But that didn't mean the sex hadn't been good.
Slowly, Angel unbuckled his belt. Spike stiffened a little, hearing the sound of the leather snaking out of Angel's belt loops. For a moment Angel stood there with the belt in his hand, looking at Spike's bare back. Remembering. He had beaten Spike more than once with his belt. He folded the belt over onto itself and snapped it, the crack of the leather loud in the small room.
Spike flinched at the report. Angel leaned over him, setting his mouth at the back of Spike's ear. "Tell me what you want."
"Hurt me, Sire. Hurt me. I belong to you--do what you would do to me, make me bleed--"
Spike was babbling. Angel recognized this for what it was--flashback. He was just spewing what Angelus would have wanted to hear. Angry, Angel suddenly snapped the belt again, looping it around Spike's neck, jerking his head back. Spike made an odd, yelping sound. He was gone, Angel knew. William was there now, the little, mewling William Angelus had attempted to break over a century ago. He'd never really succeeded. Only occasionally would William descend to this, the begging, the weepy surrender. Angelus had loved it. It pissed Angel off.
He jerked the belt hard against Spike's throat. Of course it wasn't a real threat, as Spike had no breathing to be cut off. But symbolically, the gesture stood.
"None of that," Angel snarled. "None of that crap. I don't want you like that." He jerked the belt again, and heard Spike's teeth grind together. "You tell me what you want, boy."
Spike made a choking, strangled sound. Angel realized he held the belt too tight. He couldn't strangle Spike, but he could cut off his larynx. He loosened the belt and bent in close again, this time whispering gently, "Tell me what you want."
"Want you, you bloody, fucking ponce," Spike managed. His voice came thin and airy, and Angel wondered if he'd actually hurt him. He hoped not. That wasn't the idea. "Want you to fuck me."
"How?"
"Hard. Just do it, Angel. Just fucking do it. You have my bloody permission. Is that what you want?"
Angel hesitated. Gently, he slid a hand over Spike's shoulder, up the side of his neck, until he cupped his face from behind.
"Dammit, Angel. We're bloody vampires. Fuck me like a vampire. You know you want to. Why do you bother holding it back? I'm not asking you to be gentle--I want it. God, I want it."
Spike's voice had gone breathy, with need now rather than possible injury. Angel's body was on fire--there was no denying that. No denying Spike's assertion that he did, indeed, want it. Wanted it bad.
"I don't want to hurt you."
Spike gave a strangled laugh. "Shit, Angel. I want you to hurt me. Can you not get it through your bloody thick skull? I'm over it. I'm not afraid of you anymore."
Angel stiffened. And suddenly realized what he was afraid of. What frightened him more than anything else in this strange, warped encounter.
Spike trusted him.
He'd worked toward that from the first time he'd taken Spike into his bed, the first time he'd made love to him, those months ago. Had done his best to overcome the specter of Angelus, that hung over both of them. The cycle of domination and abuse that had made their previous relationship so warped. So--vampiric.
And he'd succeeded, apparently. And he had no idea what to make of that. Even more, he had no idea what to make of the fact that he wasn't sure he could do what Spike wanted from him.
"Still got the fangs, don't you?" Spike's voice purred, a soft malevolence threading through it. "You can still bite, eh? Or did they cut your balls off when they gave you that soul?"
Spike was trying to make him angry. It wasn't working. Angel laughed. He uncurled the belt and struck him with it, not bitingly hard, but hard enough. Spike jumped under the contact, and he, too laughed.
"'S just a game, pet," he said. "Play it like you mean it." He paused. "Buffy always did."
Angel hit him. Hard, with the belt. It sliced through Spike's pale skin in a long line and blood welled. Spike laughed.
"There you go. See? Girl had nothing on you. You know that. Scourge of fucking Europe, that's you. That's who I want."
Angel growled, teetering on the edge of his demon. "Goddamn it Spike, I'm not Angelus."
Spike's shoulders hunched a little. The smell of his blood on the air had Angel fighting with the last shreds of control. "Course you are," Spike said. "Part of you is. Still. Fight him too much, he'll find a way out someday and kill you. And me. And everyone else you love."
"I don't love you," he bit out. He flung the belt across the room, heard it hit the wall somewhere behind him.
"Yeah, you do," Spike said. "Couldn't touch me the way you do sometimes if you didn't."
Spike's voice was gentle. Angel wished he could see his face. Was glad he couldn't. If he saw pity there, or worse, understanding--
Angel jerked his pants open, the button, the fly--too many damn fasteners to get out of the way--shoved them down. He grabbed Spike's shoulders and licked the bleeding belt-weal across his back, hard, his tongue digging between the edges of the wound. Spike shuddered, moaning. Desire, not pain. Arousal.
"You can let him go here," Spike said, his voice still quiet. "Just a bit. Just as much as you like. I can take him. I know him. Shit--" He flinched as Angel bit hard into the top of his shoulder, teeth still blunt. "Shit, I want him."
The demon was there, was always there, always wanting out, slavering for blood, crying out, demanding release. Angel knew control but he knew nothing about control--knew there was the release valve, those moments when, alone in his room, he sometimes did things that would have appalled his human friends...he couldn't allow himself to brutalize anyone else so he brutalized himself, the signs gone by morning, or hidden by his clothes...
Angel let the demon rise. Let more than his face change, and ripped hard into Spike's shoulder, tearing into the flesh, letting the blood fill his mouth. Not human blood, but Childe blood. Blood. Blood...
Spike tautened against him, his body a tight ripcord of lean muscle, the bones of his back pressing against Angel's chest. Angel reached around him with one hand, caught a nipple between two fingers and squeezed. Spike gave a ragged moan.
"More," he gasped. "More, God, Angel, more."
Angel's other hand moved down to cup Spike's ass. The cool, familiar flesh made it easier to let himself go, let himself fall back a little into that place where the demon could roam without taking complete control. He drove his fingers into the firm, rounded muscle, drawing Spike open.
Spike's body shivered. Fear or anticipation--but Angel could smell only lust. Need. Blood.
Blood.
Blood.
He started to push a finger in, but Spike was dry and the part of him that still wasn't ruled by the demon rebelled. "Lube," he said, because he had to, and Spike barked a harsh laugh.
"Just fuck me, Angel, goddamn it, just fuck me."
Angel shoved a finger in, hard, overcoming the taut muscle, and Spike arched back into him. Angel tipped his head forward; the blood was there right there right in front of his face and he licked the garnet rivulets from Spike's skin.
Spike moved his hips, moving toward Angel's rough penetration instead of away, drawing the finger into himself. Angel held his hand still, letting Spike pulse. After a moment he shifted, giving him another finger. He could smell more blood--Spike's tissues giving way under the rough assault--but Spike kept going, kept asking for more.
Three fingers. Spike was open now, and moaning, straining against the handcuffs as he worked himself hard on Angel's hand. "God," he breathed, "God... God..."
Angel withdrew. Spike gasped a wordless protest.
"Ask me for it," said Angel. His voice was rough, with lust and with the demon he barely held at bay. "Beg me for it, boy."
"Please." Spike's voice was breathy with need. "Need you in me."
Angel shoved his fingers in harder. "I am in you. What do you want, Spike?"
"Want your cock, Angelus." Spike's head bent back.
Angel couldn't even flinch at the name, it was so close to the truth. The smell of Spike's blood had gone to his head, was driving him into blind need, violent arousal. He didn't care any more if he hurt Spike. Why should he? Spike didn't.
He pulled his fingers free and grabbed his cock, hard, thick, ready and weeping. Shoved it inside hard and heard Spike give a guttural sound, mostly pleasure but laced with pain.
"Don't stop," Spike said, as if he knew Angel had been about to, had been about to gather his control back and try again to be gentle. "Don't stop," Spike said again, and Angel clasped his hands hard against the smaller man's hipbones and fucked him. Hard.
The lash marks from the belt had begun to heal already; Angel leaned forward and shoved the tip of his tongue into the small portion of the wound that was still open, worked it until blood covered his tongue. He felt his face change. He hadn't planned that. His teeth pricked his lip, then he sank fangs into Spike's neck, clenching hard, shaking a little like a wolf ensuring his grip on his prey. Spike cried out in shock and pain and rapture.
Spike was straining against the handcuffs now, and there was more blood as the metal cut into his skin. Too much blood; the smell was making Angel manic. He slammed into him, again and again, harder, too hard, cold Childe-blood going down his throat. Spike was growling now, the animal sound of his own demon overriding any human responses.
Angel pounded, drove in, and suddenly, explosively, emptied, the orgasm exploding through his body, intense to the point of pain. His teeth tore so deep into Spike's neck he felt the flesh separate. He stopped before it tore completely free, jerking his head back. He had that much left, that shred of control.
He jerked and bucked, the last of his climax tearing through him. He had driven himself to the root into Spike, without lube and without any particular care. Finished, finally, he drew back, appalled at the amount of blood.
But Spike was gasping, and not with pain. Angel reached up and cupped the back of his head, gentle, combing his fingers through the platinum hair.
"Don't say you're sorry," Spike grated. "I swear to God I'll put a stake through your chest if you do."
Angel said nothing. He stroked Spike's hair. After a moment, he reached around Spike's body with his other hand, cupping his hip bone, tracing his flank, then gently, carefully, reached down and lifted the soft weight of his testicles.
Spike flinched, then let out a slow breath. He was still hard--he hadn't finished yet. Angel fondled him a moment, then traced his fingers up the length of his erect cock, to the head, gentle.
"Where's the key?" he murmured.
Spike rattled the cuffs a little. "On the table."
Angel reached over and retrieved it, unlocked and removed the cuffs. Spike's wrists were bleeding. Angel turned him gently around and kissed him.
Spike leaned into the kiss, somewhat to Angel's surprise. He'd half expected him to withdraw from any display of gentleness, but apparently he'd had enough abuse. Angel traced a finger over the curve of his ear, down to his throat, up to touch the clean line of his cheekbone as he drew back from the kiss.
Angel curled his fingers through Spike's and lifted his wrist to his mouth. Gently, he slid his tongue along the wound the cuffs had left behind, taking up the blood. Spike's eyes closed and he shuddered a little.
My rules now, Angel thought. He sucked at Spike's wrist a moment, then went to his knees.
He expected Spike to protest, but he didn't. This surprised him. He clasped Spike's buttocks in his hands, clenching his fingers into the firm muscle. Spike was hard, his long, slim erection bobbing in front of Angel's face. Angel licked it, root to tip, and laughed softly when Spike's body convulsed at the contact.
"Hold still," Angel said, his voice harsh. He curled his tongue around the exposed rim, teased the edge of the retracted foreskin. Spike's head went back and he shivered, his hands combing into Angel's hair. He said nothing. No protest, no encouragement. Angel took his cock down his throat.
He took it deep, let the head settle against the back of his throat, letting the salty taste of skin and pre-come fill his mouth. He laved the base of the shaft, let the length of it slide back out of his mouth.
He should have started doing this a long time ago. No shame in a little fellatio. Angelus never would have done it. Angelus was to be blown, and never to blow.
Angelus, besides being evil, was, Angel had determined, more than a little stupid.
He enjoyed the feel of a cock in his mouth. Loved the way it tasted, loved the way the head fit just right against the back of his soft palate. Loved the way Spike's fingers tugged involuntarily on his hair as Angel worked him. He slid his hands up Spike's back to feel the muscles there grow taut. Let his fingers dig into what remained of the whip-marks, and with that invasion, Spike came. Hard, down Angel's throat, and Angel swallowed him down without hesitation.
Spike let out a low moan of deep satisfaction. Angel let Spike's cock slip out of his mouth and bent in, kissing his stomach, licking up to his chest.
"Knew you could do it," Spike gasped. "Didn't lose a bloody damn thing, did you?"
Angel said nothing. He thought he had. For a while there, he thought he had lost the last shreds of his humanity, but he hadn't. It was still there, still accessible. And, strangely, not appalled by what he had just done to Spike. Because Spike had wanted it.
And, deep down, so had Angel. In the end, here where it was just the two of them, it didn't matter what anyone else might think. Here, they understood each other. And it had been a very, very long time, Angel reflected, since anyone had really understood him. He wasn't sure anyone ever had.
This was one of those places, one of those times, when words weren't necessary. But Angel circled his tongue around Spike's right nipple, once, twice, again, then kissed him and said quietly, "Thank you."