Title: Home, Sweet Home
Warning: m/m, BDSM ref, torture ref
Spoilers:AtS 5 up to 5.09, but it's AU because the WB ain't gonna be showing this on my TV
Disclaimer: Not mine. Nope, I just play with the poseable Ken dolls in the sandbox.
Betas: NONE, off-the-cuff rough-cut, Proceed with extreme caution.
You guys are going to so defriend me because this is flat and kinda squicky. Nothing worse than flat and squicky. *sighs*
::pops back in:: Sofia, I hope you're better! I so owe you a comment. But it's 3 a.m. I'm going to bed.
And I owe lots of pimps and comments. And yeah... ::hangs head in shame::
::runs away again::
Dripping from the penthouse shower, Spike looked for a towel because Angel liked him all scrubbed and powder fresh. Poof didn't care for the likes of him dirtying the sheets. No, he had to be all squeaky clean before he was torn into and the mess made. No use arguing about it. Spike picked his battles. A little wash didn't hurt him none.
So, no towel on the rack. Figures. Spike never checked before he hopped under the spray. 'S not the first time he left puddles on the imported Tuscan stone floor. Angel'd yell his pretty little lungs out about water damage. Spike would smirk and say, "Get over it, ya git--it's stone." Not his fault if the installers didn't treat it properly.
Yeah, that'd get a rise out of Angel. More ways than one. "You know, you really piss me off, Spike," Angel would force out between gritted teeth as he pounded into him on said stone floor. Spike would grip the granite counter and rasp out, "It's my job, innit?" Oh, fuck yeah...right there...that's the bleeding ticket. "And I'll piss you off s'more if you don't pick up the pace a bit, old man," Spike would gasp. "You telling me what to do, Spike?" Angel would growl while indeed picking up said pace. "Somebody..." there, there, yeah, there, shit "somebody has to." Angel would go for the ol' reach-around and breathe in his ear, "Doesn't look like you're in the...oh God...the position...fuck...to say much." Spike would manage to say, "Can always...harder, you magnificent, twisted bastard...get a word...I said harder...in edgewise..."
The conversation would usually go down from there. "Is this...fuck, fuck, fuck...what you want, Spike?" he'd groan as he pistoned into him so hard there was no way Spike could even think of sitting in on the next staff meeting. At least not without wincing first. But Spike would manage. He would always manage because, for all his brooding crap, Angel was an unbelievable fuck. So Spike would say, finally with a whine close to desperation, "Hell, yeah.... yeah... fuuuuck...fuck me fuck me fuck me...Christ, Angel...fuck." And Spike would clamp down hard on Angel's cock as the orgasm swarmed throughout his body, would come all over Angel's fist, floor, cabinet. Angel would never last long after that. With a final thrust for emphasis and a "Jesus, Spike!" he'd come too and collapse on top of him, grinding him into the wet spot.
Well, wet spots and cold bathroom floors don't make for a rosy after-glow, so Spike would eventually wriggle when enough feeling came back to him and say, "Get off, ya ponce!" And Angel would giggle, giggle, mind you, and say, "Mmmm...well I'm comfortable." That massive wanker would stretch and settle, kiss Spike's ear with something akin to affection, and say, "Spike, you're a good pillow." Or some such bloody brilliant sex euphoric nonsense. So yeah, the floor's not so bad when Angel's got his arms and legs wrapped around Spike, when he's dropping those little nips and kisses along his neck. Floor's not so bad at all. So he would let Angel rest there a bit, let some of the weight Angel carried around be on Spike's shoulders for once, before rolling out from under.
Once, he let Angel rest a little too long. Spike shifted and said, "Angel? Angel, time's up, princess. Come on, bed's awaitin'." No response. "Angel?" No response. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Angel, are you asleep?" And sure enough, he was.
Spike sighed and brought his hands up beneath his head, rested his chin on them. Waited awhile. "What a spot we're in, yeah?" he said to the unconscious weight pinning him down. "Two vampires with one destiny and all that rot. Here we are settin' off everybody's radar and we're shaggin' each other senseless on the bathroom floor." He moved his head a little to glance up. "We're being played, I hope you know that, and we don't even know the bloody rules. You think I'm stupid, don't you? Well, I survived you at your worst, how many can say that? Just so we're clear, I hate you sometimes. Other times...I just don't." Bugger all, this floor was cold.
"We can make up our own damn rules, Angel. She did. She changed everything." Spike tried to get comfortable. "You should've seen our Buffy...she was magnificent." He turned his head to the side. You'd think they would have put in smooth Tuscan stone. "Angel, do you ever think sometimes that maybe..." Something hard and implacable twisted inside him and it wasn't Angel's cock that, now soft, was still embedded in him. "No, of course you wouldn't. Sometimes you've got your fangs bit so deep in your own arse you can't see anything, can you, you son of a bitch? 'Oooh, my life is so dark.' Walk around all day like that, don't you?"
Spike listened to the sound of water in the pipes, the faint hum of electricity that coursed through the suite. Gently grabbing one of Angel's hands, he kissed the inside of the wrist. "You're one glorious bastard though." Let go. No way he could get comfortable on the floor. He shifted anyway. Slept on worse. And that's exactly what he did, wet spot and all.
So, yeah, the once, he did that. Didn't give it much thought now as he searched for a towel. Angel usually kept the clean ones over here. And that's where he found it. Wrapped up neatly in a hunter green towel in the bottom drawer. The surgical tray with all the instruments lined up neatly. Clean as a whistle. Ready to go.
Spike sat there for a moment. Tried to tell himself that things were different now. That these things served another purpose. Tourniquets, gauze, all these things could be part of a medical kit. Something to patch. Something to heal. But, shit, how many medical kits carried a hand-held acetylene torch? Or ceremonial daggers? Oh shit. Fuck. Bugger hadn't changed that much, had he?
He felt the small hairs of his neck start to rise. Knew that silent gaze on his back like he knew nothing else. "Angel," he said. Flat. No meaning.
"You've been going through my things, Spike?" said the voice behind him. He could hear the crossed arms, the set mouth. "I never said you could."
Not looking back, Spike said, "Just needed a towel, mate. Didn't want to drip all over your lovely floor."
The voice, almost melodic, closer, near his ear now, "Looks like you already have."
Clutching the tray, Spike stood up and spun around. "Quit it. I don't feel like taking this particular stroll down memory lane."
And he wasn't just guffing off now. He meant it. Sure, he could rile up Angel into a beating and the brilliant shag that came after. But that was just a slap and a tickle. Sometimes he gave as good as he got, straddling Angel and pounding his face in. Angel'd grin and say, "Is that all you've got, Spike?" Oh no, sweetmeat, Spike had a little bit more where that came from. Earned his way into that sweet sire arse where no man had been before. Yep, no bones about it, he had popped that cherry. Made him shiver just to think of it. Think of Angel saying, "God, so that's what it's like..." Sometimes he gave, sometimes he took. Dunno, depended on the weather.
But the memories that were surfacing now were older, more brutal. Angelus in a butcher's apron saying, "Come now, William. There's a lad."
Angel, wearing only those poncy black silk boxers, backed Spike up against the shower door, put his arms against the door on either side of Spike's head. "Well now, lover, maybe I do,” he breathed. He smiled slightly, "Maybe it's time to stop playing around and get down to the heavy stuff."
Spike held that tray between them, looked up into those centuries-old eyes. The brown irises were lost, pushed back by the black swirling pupils of desire. Flashes of gold made them that much more striking. "Angel, you in there, mate?"
"Yeah, Spike, it's me." Angel lowered his head to Spike's neck, nuzzled a bit. "Disappointed, baby?"
"You heard me the first time. Quit it."
"Give me the tray, Spike." Angel took it, his mouth on Spike's neck, without looking he placed it on the vanity behind him. "Good boy." His human teeth nibbled and teased. He pressed himself against Spike and, lord, was Angel hard. One hand still on the door, he lowered the other to try and stroke Spike away from his fear.
"Come on, Spike... I'm glad you found it." He kept stroking, his tongue tracing Spike's collar bone. "You know what I want." The stroking more urgent now, the mouth moving up to his ear, "Come on, baby. Nobody could take it like you. Please." Oh fuck, he said please. "Please, I just need...just... I need this. Please."
Now Angelus wasn't much for seduction. He just took and cut into you like it was his God-given right. None of them had God-given rights but it was like Angelus just reached up and plucked them from heaven. Didn't care what anyone had to say about it. That was the point. So Angel's whispered "please" was the only thing keeping his arse from getting smacked to the floor. Because things weren't that way. Not anymore.
But "please" went a long way with Spike. "Please" made him thrust his own hand inside Angel's silk boxers. "Please" made him cup Angel's chin, lift up his own head, and kiss him. "Please" actually made him consider it.
Angel was pressing against Spike's hip, thrusting hard into his hand, the precome already making it slick and sweet. "Oh yeah," he whispered, quivering. "You know, don't you, Spike. You know..."
Know what? Know that maybe he's taking the piss? See if Spike's still Pavlov's dog? Know that the old man's finally gone round the bend? What?
"You know I can make it sweet...," Angel murmured against his mouth. "My pretty boy, always such a pretty boy."
And Spike leaned into this. Pushed back up into Angel. He knew this history but, damn, he was repeating it. Angelus had wired him for this a long time ago. Part of him still wanted it. So yeah, Pavlov's dog it was. And all it took was a couple of "please's," "baby's" and some "pretty boy's". Yeah, Angel could take a knife and slice him open as long as he kept those "pretty boy's" coming. The literal knife. On the tray.
"Wait...Angel." Spike pulled back as far as the shower door would let him. "Safe word. What's the safe word?"
Angel smiled, "Since when did you start working with a net?" And he went back to kissing him before Spike could protest.