By Rachel A.
Summary: Angel is a little possessive
The modern tattoo gun is an ingenious little device. If a person were so inclined, a thing like this could easily be turned into an implement of torture. A dozen tiny needles, piercing the flesh at two, three, four hundred thrusts every minute. Yes, it could be used to create unimaginable agonies. Not that Angel thinks about that sort of thing anymore. Much.
But he does think about fucking, and it's also a bit like that. Penetration and release, over and over, faster than any human could move, but there aren't any humans here tonight.
Torture and fucking. No wonder Spike's enjoying it so much. His boy was never big on subtle gestures.
It's a beautiful thing to watch. Shock of white hair against the black leather sofa cushions, head rocking slowly side to side, moving to his own internal melody. Tongue darting out to intermittently wet the corner of his mouth. Labored breathing and, whenever Angel turns the gun at a particularly sharp angle, a quiet moan. Eyes, heavily lidded and slightly dilated. Chest bare, jeans tight, cock pressing irritably against restrictive denim.
Shock of black ink on such white, nearly translucent skin, and Angel can feel the giddiness rising in his own throat. Beautiful lines. Remarkable contrast. Unmistakable meaning. No one will ever see Spike like this again without getting the message.
There's so little that's permanent in this world, other than the two of them. Whips and fangs and blades and holy water are entertaining play toys, but the marks they leave are almost always gone by morning. The remnants only skin deep.
A branding iron might've worked, and Spike would have surely agreed, but there's only so far that Angel is willing to go. There's a thin line between masterful, controlled infliction of pain and chaotic abuse. Spike has stumbled over that line more than once, sometimes at his own hand, sometimes at the hand that's operating the gun right now, and he could easily let it happen again. Willingly. Happily, even. It's up to Angel to see that it doesn't. That's the trust they've both given him.
He knows how hard it is for Spike- willful, aggressive, quarrelsome Spike- to surrender control so completely, to let down artfully constructed defenses and false personas built up over a century to deflect hurt and assure that attention will be paid. But he also knows how hungry he is for it, how desperate he's been for someone to just let him be. Someone who'll love and want and care for him unconditionally. He knows how deeply Spike craves to be possessed, claimed. Owned.
Angel suggested the shoulder blade earlier, so they'd match, but Spike wants it where he can see it. Said he couldn't understand why Angel would put something so beautiful on a part of his body that he can never admire, except possibly in photographs.
He probably sees some meaning in that, some deep symbolic significance, but the truth is Angel can't remember anything about why or how he got the damn thing. His only memories concerning that night involve two Krevlash demons, several liters of whiskey, and a lot of numb. Which is probably just as well. There weren't any guns back then- just a sharp, pointy gadget and a bottle of ink- and Angel's design is far more intricate than the simple letter he's imprinting on the outside of Spike's bicep now.
When he's done with the outline, Angel pauses to admire his work. Perfect, symmetrical beauty. He's glad his name doesn't start with an ugly letter like F or G. It looks bigger then he expected. Gotta be five or six inches tall. The skin around it is slightly irritated, but it's nothing a few hours healing won't take care of.
There's also a bit of blood, and Angel takes the opportunity to grab a quick bite- runs his tongue gently up one side of the A and down the other. Spike whimpers appreciatively and maneuvers the hand of his free arm down to his crotch. Rubs himself through the jeans once, twice, three times and Angel growls threateningly.
"Told you not to move," he warns.
"But you stopped," Spike whines, writhing, but not stroking anymore.
"I'm about to start again, and if you don't want a corrective skin graft you better stop squirming."
He revs up the gun, and Spike stills entirely. Except for the tongue. That damn tongue is never still.
Filling in the outline is fast, simple work and, judging by Spike's intermittent giggling, it tickles. When Angel's done with it he covers the spot quickly, tapes a large gauze bandage over the entire area because the lines are a little mottled and still seeping blood and he doesn't want Spike to look at it until it's complete and faultless.
Predictably, Spike protests, starts pulling at the tape immediately and Angel has to smack his fingers away.
"It's not ready yet. Let it heal first."
"But I wanna see," Spike says, giving him the all-purpose pouting face. Angel wishes that face didn't work on him so fucking often. It won't this time.
He finishes cleaning and dismantling the gun, then moves around to kneel in front of Spike.
"You'll see it soon," he says, and runs his hands up Spike's thighs, spreads them a bit further apart. "You can feel it now, can't you?"
Spike nods, eyes wide and fixed on Angel's.
"You won't always be able to. Just enjoy the way it feels, Will. It's good isn't it?"
Another nod. Lips parted now, waiting for a kiss. He slides forward on the sofa just a bit, bringing his crotch in closer proximity to Angel's squeezing, stroking fingers.
"You know what it means, don't you?"
"Yours," Spike croaks, his voice raspy now. Hungry. "Always yours."
Sometimes the need is so great, so overwhelming and dizzying that Angel forgets that he's supposed to be the strong one.
It isn't just the blood anymore. There's always been the blood, pulsing under their skin, pulling them together like gravity. Connecting them. But now there's something else. There's the place inside Spike where the demon and the soul meet- the place where they're the same- and sometimes Angel wants to tear through Spike's flesh, devour every bit of him until he reaches that place, and just bury himself in it.
Sometimes being close to Spike makes him weak. This is one of those times. He's distracted, almost sick with lust, and Spike takes advantage of the moment by lunging at him and tackling him to the floor via the coffee table.
It isn't the first piece of furniture they've broken over the past few months, but it's a fairly expensive piece and Spike should be punished for it. At some point.
Just as soon as he's done straddling Angel's hips and thrashing furiously against him. Kissing him.
God, that tongue. That tongue in his mouth now, doing wicked, magical things. Things other tongues haven't even dreamt of.
Angel's hands travel down Spike's back, under the waistband of his jeans, and grip him tightly, pulling him closer. His hips roll up to meet Spike's.
Friction and heat and his boy whimpering into his mouth, and he really should be stopping this because it's supposed to be about control and Angel's completely lost it.
Spike pulls clumsily at the buttons on Angel's shirt. Silk shirt. Three hundred dollars. Buttons flying, fabric tearing and there's another thing he'll need to be punished for.
God, maybe tomorrow. Because now there's Spike's chest sliding against his own. Skin on skin, and shirts can be replaced, but this can't.
"M'so close already," Spike whispers against his cheek.
"S'all right. Let it go," Angel tells him, struggling to maintain the illusion of authority. Wishing he wasn't so goddamn close himself.
This is not going the way he planned.
He slides a hand in the thin space between them and yanks at Spike's jeans until that gorgeous cock is free and in his grasp. Hard and hot and demanding against his palm. He is very close. Angel squeezes him tight.
Spike moans wordlessly into his ear. Tries to thrust in his fist, but the grip doesn't allow much movement.
"Say it, boy. Say it." Tighter and tighter still. Has to be careful now because he'd rather go to hell again than cause any serious damage to this part of him.
"Ugh. Yours," Spike grunts. "Yours. Every bit. S'all yours."
"Jesus, you wanker."
"Wrong answer." Just a little bit tighter. Just that last little bit before it becomes excruciating. Angel knows the line. He's got it.
"Yours, sire. Sir. Daddy. God, jus' please...lemme...come."
Angel smiles, licks up Spike's cheek appreciatively and loosens his hand to a comfortable grip.
"That's my good boy," he whispers, jerks Spike a few times quick and is rewarded with a series of sweet, sharp gasps and hot little hands clutching at his shoulders.
More whimpers in his ear. Endearments. Love. Sweet. Pet, which he usually doesn't allow because if anybody's the pet here, it's Spike, but this time it's good and it's followed by daddy. daddydaddydaddy, and then the warm splash of release on Angel's belly and it's enough to send him bucking wildly up between Spike's legs, against his own hand.
It's enough to make him come in his brand new Giorgio Armani slacks, but fuck. It's worth it. He'll have Spike take them to the cleaners. Sometime...else.
For now, he settles for gently nudging Spike's head down, encouraging him to clean his own mess, and he does. God, he does. Licks it right off Angel's stomach like a fucking cat with cream, and for once in his stupid, endless life Angel feels like the luckiest bastard there ever was.
Then that searing, lewd tongue is back in his mouth, thrusting and curling, and he sucks at it hungrily. Angel isn't very eloquent or poetic, but he's often wondered what sort of sonnets could be written to describe the way Spike tastes at moments like this. He's tried to put it to words, but the only word that ever comes to mind is fuck. He tastes like fuck.
Eventually they break apart, and Spike sits up on his knees.
"Can I look at it now?" he asks.
It hasn't been long enough, but Angel's itching to see it too, so he nods his permission.
"Just be careful," he says, but too late because Spike's already torn the bandage off with his usual unbridled enthusiasm, and yelped from the pain of tape removing hair from flesh. Silly boy.
He looks down at it, twists his arm in every possible direction, getting every possible view, and Angel watches him with a bit of apprehension. What if he doesn't like it?
But he does. He's fondling it now, and smiling.
"Don't touch it," Angel tells him. "Still healing."
"S'beautiful," Spike says. And it is. The old English lettering was a good choice. Pretty, but solid.
"Glad you like it."
"Course I like it," Spike tells him, and drapes himself back over Angel's upper body. Rubs his head against his chest. "I'd like it even if it was ugly."
"I'm gonna fuck you through the floorboards in a few minutes."
"Certainly hope so."
Yes, he is one lucky bastard. And now no one will ever forget it.