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estepheiaSince I will be out later in the day watching hubby dance in a Celtic Christmas show (I kid you not), I am posting the first part of my dirtywrong!Spangel AU now. I hope to finish the second part tomorrow or on Monday. Many thanks to everybody who replied to my non-con poll and to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sangpassionne, who helped me sort out a few details. And since this is my first AU (and my first genuine non-con), I'd appreciate any feedback that helps me do better next time.
TITLE: Lucky - Part 1/4
PAIRING: Spike/Angel (both are human)
RATING: NC-17
WARNTINGS: slash, non-con fic, strong language, violence, bondage. Yep this one will get a lot nastier than my usual stuff. Consider yourself warned.
REQUESTED BY:liliaeth
REQUEST: Personas Requested: Spike as a thief, Angel as a corrupt cop; Spike tries to break into Angel's place, and soon comes to regret it; no Angel/Buffy of any kind, no saintly Angel, no fluff; Tone: Dark, but Spike comes out of it alive and safe (sort of at least); Rating Preference: NC-17
Lucky - Part 1
Keys rattled in the lock, then the door opened only to be slammed shut a moment later. With a metallic clunk the heavy bunch of keys hit the counter that separated the kitchenette from the spacious living room. It landed right next to the phone. A red flashing light indicated a voice mail. At the push of a button, the machine beeped, then a woman's accusing voice spoke up:
"Angel? In case you hadn't noticed, it's the fourth. You're late. Again. If you don't learn to write a check on time, Lindsey says he'll garnish your wages. I want the money in my hands by Monday, otherwise I'll call your boss. I'll tell Chief Wilkins that his highly decorated super cop can't pay his child support on time, because he spends it all on call boys and gambling. Also, Connor told me you met him outside his school and that he asked you to come and watch him bat on Sunday. You'll have to call him. Tell him you can't make it. Tell him you're too busy cracking your big case. Make something up. After all, lying is something you really excel at. If I hear that you've been near my son again I'll——Beep."
"Bitch!" Police Detective Liam Angel, vice squad, LAPD, punched the delete button on the answering machine, erasing his ex-wife's message.
He shrugged out of his expensive leather jacket and put it on a hanger, mindful of the soft material, then toed off his Guccis, enjoying the softness of the thick carpet under his feet as he headed towards his well stocked liquor cabinet. A Bourbon later, the edge of his bad temper was nowhere near blunted, but the alcohol had transmuted the gut-churning anger into a more comforting burn.
Full glass in one hand, bottle dangling from the other, Angel padded through the house and up the winding staircase into the large bedroom. It was an elegantly furnished room with a plush white carpet, white shelves, a 42" plasma TV, and a huge four poster bed. A burgundy red mosquito net hung from the ceiling, providing the only splash of color in the otherwise white room. A huge walk-in closet was well hidden behind a set of mirrors that covered an entire wall.
Angel took off his empty shoulder holster, scowling at the memory of his suspension. Hamilton from IA had said nothing throughout the whole procedure, but Chief Wilkins had washed his hands twice in five minutes. And now Angel's gun and badge lay in Chief Wilkins' drawer. Great. He gulped down the contents of his glass, then poured himself another.
Suddenly an unexpected chill trickled up his spine. Angel tensed. He'd learned to trust these stabs of primeval fear. They had jolted him out of harm's way on more than one occasion. Lethal bullets had merely grazed him or missed him altogether. Everybody in the department knew that Angel had a knack for beating the odds. A lucky devil, that's what they called him behind his back. This innate danger radar was a gift, his special talent – out there, in the jungle, in the streets it was invaluable, but it had no business invading his home.
The air, he realized, was a little bit too warm in here. The AC unit should have kept the room temperature far below this. Angel's gaze flickered to the balcony door. It was slightly ajar, letting in warm outside air. A slight draft caused the drapes to billow. Fuck!
All senses on alert, he covertly checked his surroundings. The entire room was reflected in the large mirror that covered one of the walls, including the space under the bed. No killer there. Both the bathroom door and the closet door were closed,
He snuck a hand under the bed to grope for the spare gun he'd duct taped to the bed frame. To his great relief the weapon was still in its place. He pulled it from its hiding place, and quietly checked the chambers, breathing in the familiar smell of metal and gun oil.. Fully loaded. Good.
There weren't many places where an intruder might lurk. In this part of the apartment, there were only the closet, and the bathroom. Given the choice, Angel would always pick the closet for a hiding space. It offered more nooks and crannies. Plus, the mass of fabric inside helped muffle sounds of breathing, while bathrooms tended to amplify all sounds. If the intruder had half a brain, that's where he'd lurk, straining to hear what Angel was doing.
Darla's half of the closet was still full of dresses and skirts, and at least two dozen pairs of women's shoes – cast-offs like Angel, things Darla hadn't bothered to take with her, when she'd stormed off and right into the bed of that upstart lawyer, Macdonald. And to think that she'd only met that smirking son of a bitch because Angel had introduced her to him.
Angel picked up his glass and sipped another mouthful of Bourbon, to wash the bitter taste of jealousy away.
He should get rid of her things, he decided. Burn them. It would serve her right. Only, the fact that they still hung in his closet more than four months after their break-up, made it abundantly clear that she wasn't coming back and that Daddy had already comforted his princess with enough money to buy a truckloads of new Prada shoes and handbags. And that rendered the destruction of her cast-offs an empty, pathetic gesture.
Without a sound and ready to fire his gun as soon as a target presented itself, Angel checked first the balcony, then the bathroom, just to be sure, but every instinct told him that the threat came from the closet. He loosened his tie and took off his vest, hanging it over his arm so it covered the hand with the gun, obscuring the fact that he was armed. Then he opened the closet door with his left.
The neon lights went on automatically, revealing… nothing. Just shoe boxes and rows and rows of clothes, neatly arranged by color and type, like a row of suits going from gray to black, and an impressive number of well-ironed shirts going from light-blue to dark purple.
No pant legs betrayed an intruder lurking between the suits, and none of the clothes were swinging on their hangers. Everything was as it should be, except for that warning tickle between Angel's shoulder blades. Close, real close, the feeling seemed to say. But where?
Angel looked up. Underneath the ceiling, holding on to the upper shelves of the closet and wedged in like a ninja in one of those stupid kung fu movies, hung a man, dressed from head to toe in black. His face was fully hidden under a balaclava, except for a pair of strikingly blue eyes.
"Bollocks," the man muttered, and then, "oof," when Angel punched him in the gut and yanked him down, head first.
The burglar tumbled down in an ungraceful tangle of limbs and landed hard on the floor. A few shoe boxes spilled from the shelves and landed on him. Angel kicked him hard, with the intention to knock the wind out of him. Barefooted he didn't cause any real damage, but at least he elicited a yelp.
The intruder lurched to his feet with more grace than Angel had thought possible, but he stopped in his tracks at the sight of the gun in Angel's unwavering hand.
"Right, you've got me. Don't shoot." The man shouted, arms raised in the air, and added more calmly: "I'm unarmed."
Yeah, like he'd never heard that one before. Usually just before the perp pulled a gun out of his ankle holster. Armed, or unarmed. Angel shrugged. Made no difference to him. Any piece of vermin who broke into a cop's house was either too stupid to live or asking for it, as far as Angel was concerned.
Yet something told him that this wasn't your regular street punk high on crack, prone to pull a gun or knife on you. This man was a cool customer. No nervous fidgeting, no macho air.
"Take it off," Angel said, meaning the hood. "I wanna see your face. And slowly!"
His prisoner slowly reached for the balaclava and pulled it off, revealing a healthy tan, a tangle of slightly too long sun-bleached hair, and one of the prettiest faces Angel had ever seen. Almost too pretty to shoot. Sharp cheekbones, strong nose, sensuous lips, and stunning, deep-blue eyes. A strong face, with a few faint lines around the eyes that suggested that the man was maybe a few years older than the mid-twenties that came to mind at first sight. Classy, yeah, that was the word Angel had been looking for. If one could call a thief classy at all.
With a face like this, the guy would be out in no time. Stupid jury system.
Angel's finger slowly tightened on the trigger. Every self-respecting cop would call this a clear-cut case of self defense: A hooded intruder found dead with a loaded gun in his hand – case closed, especially if the perp had a record. As for the gun, Angel had picked up a small automatic pistol during one of his busts. One less scumbag to get back on the streets because of a foul-up in police procedure, or because he fooled the probation committee. A message to the world out there, that you didn't fuck with cops and their own.
Angel had never killed a man like this before, but he knew others in the department who had. They were still on the force, working their beat and collecting their pay.
Part of what Angel was thinking must have shown on his face, because his prisoner paled and his breathing quickened. But his gaze was defiant.
Suddenly, Angel didn't relish the thought of splattering the man's guts or brain matter all over his plush white carpet. He relaxed slightly, easing the pressure on the trigger, but he did not lower his gun. "Hands behind your head," he barked. "Trust me, from here I couldn't miss even if I tried."
His prisoner obeyed with alacrity. When he raised his arms the black sweater rode high, offering a glimpse of a slim waist, and a wispy trail of honey blond hair that led south from the man's navel and disappeared inside a pair of tight, low riding pants.
Angel walked backwards, out of the closet, beckoning his prisoner forward, until they both stood inside the bedroom.
"Now turn around."
Blondie complied, more slowly this time. Angel left him no time to ponder his fate or contemplate resistance. Two steps brought him into close range. With a vicious punch in the kidneys, he knocked the wind out his prisoner, then manhandled him face first against the mirror. And just so the message didn't get lost, Angel pressed the barrel of his gun against the man's neck. It was a language that even the densest of scumbags normally understood.
Only, apparently Angel's prisoner didn't. "Oi!" he exclaimed. "No need for any of—"
"Shut up." Angel grabbed the blond head and slammed it against the wall. A spider web of cracks appeared where the man's skull smashed the glass. When Blondie's knees buckled, Angel grabbed his collar and kept him upright, using his own weight to pin him to the wall. The guy was a grown man, but rail thin like a junkie. Not heavy at all.
"Now look what you made me do," Angel spat, incensed. "D'you have any idea how much a mirror like this costs?"
His prisoner made a strangled sound, like he was swallowing a chuckle or maybe some smartass comeback.
"What's so funny?"
"Seven years of bad luck, mate," came the slightly slurred reply, in a decidedly British accent.
"Yeah, but it's your bad luck, 'mate'", Angel said, "not mine."
The man shook his head, or maybe he was just trying to clear his head.
"Come on, I'm guessing you know the drill," Angel said and kicked the man's feet apart, relishing the feeling of power. "Spread."
His prisoner surrendered, still slightly stunned from the blow to his head.
Grinning, Angel shoved the gun into the shoulder holster and ran both hands over the man's arms, chest, ass, and legs, expertly patting him down for weapons – with maybe a little more thoroughness than strictly necessary. The man's pockets yielded a wallet, a silver lighter, a pack of cigarettes, and a bunch of car keys, all of which Angel tossed on the bed. Other than that, Angel's knowledgeable hands found nothing of interest, only strong thighs, hard washboard abs, and a nice, firm ass. No gun, no knife, no lock picks. Clean as a whistle.
He yanked the man's wrists behind his back and slapped on the cuffs, before taking a few steps back to rifle through the wallet. It was empty except for a few ten dollar bills. No photographs, no credit cards, no receipts, but most of all: no driver's license. No ID. No name.
"What's your name?" Angel asked, pocketing the money.
His prisoner slowly turned around. Blood seeped from a shallow cut on his forehead. There was a sullen look on his face and he did not answer.
Angel grinned wolfishly, and took a threatening step towards his prisoner. "Okay, let me spell it out for you. I'm not a patient man. So, never – do you hear me? – never make me ask a question twice. Now. What's—"
"Spike." The answer came out without hesitation, but the man's startlingly blue eyes shone with defiance. "The name's Spike."
"I doubt that's what your ID says, but okay, it'll do for now." Angel stepped into the closet for a quick look, but nothing looked out of the ordinary. "Where are your tools? You didn't pick the lock on my balcony door with your fingernails, so where—"
"In there." Spike nodded towards the closet. "Shoe box. The Manolo Blahnik one."
Angel checked and found a tidy assortment of lock picks and pliers. The tools of a true professional.
"What about your piece? Your gun? Where did you hide that?"
"No gun."
Muscled abs or no, Spike doubled over like a flick-knife when Angel's fist slammed into his solar plexus. "Don't lie to me," Angel said calmly, circling the kneeling and panting man like a lion circling his prey. "Never, ever lie to me."
"It's true," the thief ground out, between desperate, open-mouthed gasps for breath. The sight sent a wild, unpremeditated surge of arousal through Angel's body. "Guns. Not my style."
Angel stopped in front of him and grabbed Spike's hair, forcing him to look up, aware that this put the man's mouth mere inches away from his hardening cock. "If I find out you lied to me about this…"
Pain and fear flickered in the man's eyes, and that too felt good, sent a stab of desire right to Angel's cock.
"Do you know who I am?" Angel asked in a low voice.
"You're a cop," his prisoner said. His gaze darted sideways, to a group photograph that hung on the wall, showing Angel and a handful of other cops in front of a patrol car.
"I'd say 'smart lad', only we both know you're not. Why can't I call you smart? Well?" Angel tightened the grip on the man's hair, eliciting an exhilarating wince of pain.
"'Cause I broke into a cop's place?" Spike offered. He looked furious, yet he was scared enough to play Angel's game.
Angel grinned, and let go to mimic the pulling of a trigger. Bull's-eye, the gesture said.
"I didn't know," the little weasel hastened to say. "I swear. I was just in the neighborhood. Thought the place looked nice, posh even. Climbed on the balcony to check it out. Saw the fancy TV an' decided to take a closer look."
"Thinking it was your lucky day, no doubt." Angel completed the story.
"Lucky, yeah," Spike said, with a bitter twitch of his mouth.
Realizing that the blood from his prisoner's head wound was about to drip on his spotless carpet, Angel strode towards the bedside table and yanked open the top drawer to grab a tissue. The other contents of the drawer rolled around, noisily drawing attention to themselves: bottles of lube, condoms, cock rings, and dildos in all shapes and sizes. Angel paused, the tissue box lifted half-way out of the drawer, mesmerized by the sight and the possibilities the long phallic objects seemed to suggest.
He turned around to regard his prisoner. Blondie was still down on his knees, panting, his pretty mouth wide open as he gasped for air. Angel was hit by another surge of arousal and the mental image of his cock disappearing between those lips. A fantasy, tantalizing but harmless, but fueled by anger it began to solidify into a game of bluff.
Angel grabbed Spike's hair again, and held him steady, while he wiped the blood off his face, in slow, meticulous strokes. His cock, already swollen, hardened to the point of discomfort.
"Aren't you gonna read me my rights?" Spike said with a forced chuckle. "Isn't that what you Yankee cops do?"
"Not to low-down cheap punks who invade our homes," Angel said darkly, tossing the blood-stained tissue aside and pulling the gun from its holster. "Those we just shoot."
His prisoner tensed at that. He lifted his head, a wild-eyed look on his face. Fear, defiance, it all looked good on him.
"Unless of course we find some other use for them," Angel said, not entirely sure if he meant the words or if he'd only said them to scare his prisoner.
"What kind of—?" he broke off, when Angel touched the gunpoint to his temple. Instead of pulling the trigger, Angel slowly dragged the cold barrel downwards, tracing the contours of Spike's face – not with great force, not to hurt, but gently, in a lingering caress.
"What kind of use? I think you know," Angel said, drinking in the way his captive squirmed under the touch of his gun. He felt himself harden even more, if that was at all possible. He nudged Spike's lower lip with the barrel, watching his prisoner's nostrils flare as he was breathing rapidly through his nose, determined to keep his lips and mouth impenetrable. In and out, in and out, he breathed. It was an amazing sight. Angel's heart pounded madly in his chest.
Spike's gaze darted from Angel's bulging crotch to the open drawer. So, Blondie had seen the toys Angel kept in there? His mommy should have taught him not to stick his nose where it didn't belong. Angel secured the gun and tossed it on the bed. Time to teach Spike a lesson.
Judging from the expression on his face, Spike knew what would happen next even before Angel did, even before Angel's free hand went to his belt.
TBC in Part 2
TBC
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10
sangpassionne, who helped me sort out a few details. And since this is my first AU (and my first genuine non-con), I'd appreciate any feedback that helps me do better next time.TITLE: Lucky - Part 1/4
PAIRING: Spike/Angel (both are human)
RATING: NC-17
WARNTINGS: slash, non-con fic, strong language, violence, bondage. Yep this one will get a lot nastier than my usual stuff. Consider yourself warned.
REQUESTED BY:
liliaethREQUEST: Personas Requested: Spike as a thief, Angel as a corrupt cop; Spike tries to break into Angel's place, and soon comes to regret it; no Angel/Buffy of any kind, no saintly Angel, no fluff; Tone: Dark, but Spike comes out of it alive and safe (sort of at least); Rating Preference: NC-17
Lucky - Part 1
Keys rattled in the lock, then the door opened only to be slammed shut a moment later. With a metallic clunk the heavy bunch of keys hit the counter that separated the kitchenette from the spacious living room. It landed right next to the phone. A red flashing light indicated a voice mail. At the push of a button, the machine beeped, then a woman's accusing voice spoke up:
"Angel? In case you hadn't noticed, it's the fourth. You're late. Again. If you don't learn to write a check on time, Lindsey says he'll garnish your wages. I want the money in my hands by Monday, otherwise I'll call your boss. I'll tell Chief Wilkins that his highly decorated super cop can't pay his child support on time, because he spends it all on call boys and gambling. Also, Connor told me you met him outside his school and that he asked you to come and watch him bat on Sunday. You'll have to call him. Tell him you can't make it. Tell him you're too busy cracking your big case. Make something up. After all, lying is something you really excel at. If I hear that you've been near my son again I'll——Beep."
"Bitch!" Police Detective Liam Angel, vice squad, LAPD, punched the delete button on the answering machine, erasing his ex-wife's message.
He shrugged out of his expensive leather jacket and put it on a hanger, mindful of the soft material, then toed off his Guccis, enjoying the softness of the thick carpet under his feet as he headed towards his well stocked liquor cabinet. A Bourbon later, the edge of his bad temper was nowhere near blunted, but the alcohol had transmuted the gut-churning anger into a more comforting burn.
Full glass in one hand, bottle dangling from the other, Angel padded through the house and up the winding staircase into the large bedroom. It was an elegantly furnished room with a plush white carpet, white shelves, a 42" plasma TV, and a huge four poster bed. A burgundy red mosquito net hung from the ceiling, providing the only splash of color in the otherwise white room. A huge walk-in closet was well hidden behind a set of mirrors that covered an entire wall.
Angel took off his empty shoulder holster, scowling at the memory of his suspension. Hamilton from IA had said nothing throughout the whole procedure, but Chief Wilkins had washed his hands twice in five minutes. And now Angel's gun and badge lay in Chief Wilkins' drawer. Great. He gulped down the contents of his glass, then poured himself another.
Suddenly an unexpected chill trickled up his spine. Angel tensed. He'd learned to trust these stabs of primeval fear. They had jolted him out of harm's way on more than one occasion. Lethal bullets had merely grazed him or missed him altogether. Everybody in the department knew that Angel had a knack for beating the odds. A lucky devil, that's what they called him behind his back. This innate danger radar was a gift, his special talent – out there, in the jungle, in the streets it was invaluable, but it had no business invading his home.
The air, he realized, was a little bit too warm in here. The AC unit should have kept the room temperature far below this. Angel's gaze flickered to the balcony door. It was slightly ajar, letting in warm outside air. A slight draft caused the drapes to billow. Fuck!
All senses on alert, he covertly checked his surroundings. The entire room was reflected in the large mirror that covered one of the walls, including the space under the bed. No killer there. Both the bathroom door and the closet door were closed,
He snuck a hand under the bed to grope for the spare gun he'd duct taped to the bed frame. To his great relief the weapon was still in its place. He pulled it from its hiding place, and quietly checked the chambers, breathing in the familiar smell of metal and gun oil.. Fully loaded. Good.
There weren't many places where an intruder might lurk. In this part of the apartment, there were only the closet, and the bathroom. Given the choice, Angel would always pick the closet for a hiding space. It offered more nooks and crannies. Plus, the mass of fabric inside helped muffle sounds of breathing, while bathrooms tended to amplify all sounds. If the intruder had half a brain, that's where he'd lurk, straining to hear what Angel was doing.
Darla's half of the closet was still full of dresses and skirts, and at least two dozen pairs of women's shoes – cast-offs like Angel, things Darla hadn't bothered to take with her, when she'd stormed off and right into the bed of that upstart lawyer, Macdonald. And to think that she'd only met that smirking son of a bitch because Angel had introduced her to him.
Angel picked up his glass and sipped another mouthful of Bourbon, to wash the bitter taste of jealousy away.
He should get rid of her things, he decided. Burn them. It would serve her right. Only, the fact that they still hung in his closet more than four months after their break-up, made it abundantly clear that she wasn't coming back and that Daddy had already comforted his princess with enough money to buy a truckloads of new Prada shoes and handbags. And that rendered the destruction of her cast-offs an empty, pathetic gesture.
Without a sound and ready to fire his gun as soon as a target presented itself, Angel checked first the balcony, then the bathroom, just to be sure, but every instinct told him that the threat came from the closet. He loosened his tie and took off his vest, hanging it over his arm so it covered the hand with the gun, obscuring the fact that he was armed. Then he opened the closet door with his left.
The neon lights went on automatically, revealing… nothing. Just shoe boxes and rows and rows of clothes, neatly arranged by color and type, like a row of suits going from gray to black, and an impressive number of well-ironed shirts going from light-blue to dark purple.
No pant legs betrayed an intruder lurking between the suits, and none of the clothes were swinging on their hangers. Everything was as it should be, except for that warning tickle between Angel's shoulder blades. Close, real close, the feeling seemed to say. But where?
Angel looked up. Underneath the ceiling, holding on to the upper shelves of the closet and wedged in like a ninja in one of those stupid kung fu movies, hung a man, dressed from head to toe in black. His face was fully hidden under a balaclava, except for a pair of strikingly blue eyes.
"Bollocks," the man muttered, and then, "oof," when Angel punched him in the gut and yanked him down, head first.
The burglar tumbled down in an ungraceful tangle of limbs and landed hard on the floor. A few shoe boxes spilled from the shelves and landed on him. Angel kicked him hard, with the intention to knock the wind out of him. Barefooted he didn't cause any real damage, but at least he elicited a yelp.
The intruder lurched to his feet with more grace than Angel had thought possible, but he stopped in his tracks at the sight of the gun in Angel's unwavering hand.
"Right, you've got me. Don't shoot." The man shouted, arms raised in the air, and added more calmly: "I'm unarmed."
Yeah, like he'd never heard that one before. Usually just before the perp pulled a gun out of his ankle holster. Armed, or unarmed. Angel shrugged. Made no difference to him. Any piece of vermin who broke into a cop's house was either too stupid to live or asking for it, as far as Angel was concerned.
Yet something told him that this wasn't your regular street punk high on crack, prone to pull a gun or knife on you. This man was a cool customer. No nervous fidgeting, no macho air.
"Take it off," Angel said, meaning the hood. "I wanna see your face. And slowly!"
His prisoner slowly reached for the balaclava and pulled it off, revealing a healthy tan, a tangle of slightly too long sun-bleached hair, and one of the prettiest faces Angel had ever seen. Almost too pretty to shoot. Sharp cheekbones, strong nose, sensuous lips, and stunning, deep-blue eyes. A strong face, with a few faint lines around the eyes that suggested that the man was maybe a few years older than the mid-twenties that came to mind at first sight. Classy, yeah, that was the word Angel had been looking for. If one could call a thief classy at all.
With a face like this, the guy would be out in no time. Stupid jury system.
Angel's finger slowly tightened on the trigger. Every self-respecting cop would call this a clear-cut case of self defense: A hooded intruder found dead with a loaded gun in his hand – case closed, especially if the perp had a record. As for the gun, Angel had picked up a small automatic pistol during one of his busts. One less scumbag to get back on the streets because of a foul-up in police procedure, or because he fooled the probation committee. A message to the world out there, that you didn't fuck with cops and their own.
Angel had never killed a man like this before, but he knew others in the department who had. They were still on the force, working their beat and collecting their pay.
Part of what Angel was thinking must have shown on his face, because his prisoner paled and his breathing quickened. But his gaze was defiant.
Suddenly, Angel didn't relish the thought of splattering the man's guts or brain matter all over his plush white carpet. He relaxed slightly, easing the pressure on the trigger, but he did not lower his gun. "Hands behind your head," he barked. "Trust me, from here I couldn't miss even if I tried."
His prisoner obeyed with alacrity. When he raised his arms the black sweater rode high, offering a glimpse of a slim waist, and a wispy trail of honey blond hair that led south from the man's navel and disappeared inside a pair of tight, low riding pants.
Angel walked backwards, out of the closet, beckoning his prisoner forward, until they both stood inside the bedroom.
"Now turn around."
Blondie complied, more slowly this time. Angel left him no time to ponder his fate or contemplate resistance. Two steps brought him into close range. With a vicious punch in the kidneys, he knocked the wind out his prisoner, then manhandled him face first against the mirror. And just so the message didn't get lost, Angel pressed the barrel of his gun against the man's neck. It was a language that even the densest of scumbags normally understood.
Only, apparently Angel's prisoner didn't. "Oi!" he exclaimed. "No need for any of—"
"Shut up." Angel grabbed the blond head and slammed it against the wall. A spider web of cracks appeared where the man's skull smashed the glass. When Blondie's knees buckled, Angel grabbed his collar and kept him upright, using his own weight to pin him to the wall. The guy was a grown man, but rail thin like a junkie. Not heavy at all.
"Now look what you made me do," Angel spat, incensed. "D'you have any idea how much a mirror like this costs?"
His prisoner made a strangled sound, like he was swallowing a chuckle or maybe some smartass comeback.
"What's so funny?"
"Seven years of bad luck, mate," came the slightly slurred reply, in a decidedly British accent.
"Yeah, but it's your bad luck, 'mate'", Angel said, "not mine."
The man shook his head, or maybe he was just trying to clear his head.
"Come on, I'm guessing you know the drill," Angel said and kicked the man's feet apart, relishing the feeling of power. "Spread."
His prisoner surrendered, still slightly stunned from the blow to his head.
Grinning, Angel shoved the gun into the shoulder holster and ran both hands over the man's arms, chest, ass, and legs, expertly patting him down for weapons – with maybe a little more thoroughness than strictly necessary. The man's pockets yielded a wallet, a silver lighter, a pack of cigarettes, and a bunch of car keys, all of which Angel tossed on the bed. Other than that, Angel's knowledgeable hands found nothing of interest, only strong thighs, hard washboard abs, and a nice, firm ass. No gun, no knife, no lock picks. Clean as a whistle.
He yanked the man's wrists behind his back and slapped on the cuffs, before taking a few steps back to rifle through the wallet. It was empty except for a few ten dollar bills. No photographs, no credit cards, no receipts, but most of all: no driver's license. No ID. No name.
"What's your name?" Angel asked, pocketing the money.
His prisoner slowly turned around. Blood seeped from a shallow cut on his forehead. There was a sullen look on his face and he did not answer.
Angel grinned wolfishly, and took a threatening step towards his prisoner. "Okay, let me spell it out for you. I'm not a patient man. So, never – do you hear me? – never make me ask a question twice. Now. What's—"
"Spike." The answer came out without hesitation, but the man's startlingly blue eyes shone with defiance. "The name's Spike."
"I doubt that's what your ID says, but okay, it'll do for now." Angel stepped into the closet for a quick look, but nothing looked out of the ordinary. "Where are your tools? You didn't pick the lock on my balcony door with your fingernails, so where—"
"In there." Spike nodded towards the closet. "Shoe box. The Manolo Blahnik one."
Angel checked and found a tidy assortment of lock picks and pliers. The tools of a true professional.
"What about your piece? Your gun? Where did you hide that?"
"No gun."
Muscled abs or no, Spike doubled over like a flick-knife when Angel's fist slammed into his solar plexus. "Don't lie to me," Angel said calmly, circling the kneeling and panting man like a lion circling his prey. "Never, ever lie to me."
"It's true," the thief ground out, between desperate, open-mouthed gasps for breath. The sight sent a wild, unpremeditated surge of arousal through Angel's body. "Guns. Not my style."
Angel stopped in front of him and grabbed Spike's hair, forcing him to look up, aware that this put the man's mouth mere inches away from his hardening cock. "If I find out you lied to me about this…"
Pain and fear flickered in the man's eyes, and that too felt good, sent a stab of desire right to Angel's cock.
"Do you know who I am?" Angel asked in a low voice.
"You're a cop," his prisoner said. His gaze darted sideways, to a group photograph that hung on the wall, showing Angel and a handful of other cops in front of a patrol car.
"I'd say 'smart lad', only we both know you're not. Why can't I call you smart? Well?" Angel tightened the grip on the man's hair, eliciting an exhilarating wince of pain.
"'Cause I broke into a cop's place?" Spike offered. He looked furious, yet he was scared enough to play Angel's game.
Angel grinned, and let go to mimic the pulling of a trigger. Bull's-eye, the gesture said.
"I didn't know," the little weasel hastened to say. "I swear. I was just in the neighborhood. Thought the place looked nice, posh even. Climbed on the balcony to check it out. Saw the fancy TV an' decided to take a closer look."
"Thinking it was your lucky day, no doubt." Angel completed the story.
"Lucky, yeah," Spike said, with a bitter twitch of his mouth.
Realizing that the blood from his prisoner's head wound was about to drip on his spotless carpet, Angel strode towards the bedside table and yanked open the top drawer to grab a tissue. The other contents of the drawer rolled around, noisily drawing attention to themselves: bottles of lube, condoms, cock rings, and dildos in all shapes and sizes. Angel paused, the tissue box lifted half-way out of the drawer, mesmerized by the sight and the possibilities the long phallic objects seemed to suggest.
He turned around to regard his prisoner. Blondie was still down on his knees, panting, his pretty mouth wide open as he gasped for air. Angel was hit by another surge of arousal and the mental image of his cock disappearing between those lips. A fantasy, tantalizing but harmless, but fueled by anger it began to solidify into a game of bluff.
Angel grabbed Spike's hair again, and held him steady, while he wiped the blood off his face, in slow, meticulous strokes. His cock, already swollen, hardened to the point of discomfort.
"Aren't you gonna read me my rights?" Spike said with a forced chuckle. "Isn't that what you Yankee cops do?"
"Not to low-down cheap punks who invade our homes," Angel said darkly, tossing the blood-stained tissue aside and pulling the gun from its holster. "Those we just shoot."
His prisoner tensed at that. He lifted his head, a wild-eyed look on his face. Fear, defiance, it all looked good on him.
"Unless of course we find some other use for them," Angel said, not entirely sure if he meant the words or if he'd only said them to scare his prisoner.
"What kind of—?" he broke off, when Angel touched the gunpoint to his temple. Instead of pulling the trigger, Angel slowly dragged the cold barrel downwards, tracing the contours of Spike's face – not with great force, not to hurt, but gently, in a lingering caress.
"What kind of use? I think you know," Angel said, drinking in the way his captive squirmed under the touch of his gun. He felt himself harden even more, if that was at all possible. He nudged Spike's lower lip with the barrel, watching his prisoner's nostrils flare as he was breathing rapidly through his nose, determined to keep his lips and mouth impenetrable. In and out, in and out, he breathed. It was an amazing sight. Angel's heart pounded madly in his chest.
Spike's gaze darted from Angel's bulging crotch to the open drawer. So, Blondie had seen the toys Angel kept in there? His mommy should have taught him not to stick his nose where it didn't belong. Angel secured the gun and tossed it on the bed. Time to teach Spike a lesson.
Judging from the expression on his face, Spike knew what would happen next even before Angel did, even before Angel's free hand went to his belt.
TBC in Part 2
TBC
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10
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no subject
Date: 2004-12-18 08:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-18 08:14 am (UTC)Next - nice build up of his predeliction for the boys.
nit-picking
- Spike's English accent arrived a little late. He'd already spoken quite a bit before it was mentioned.
- use of the word weasel doesn't fit with Angel's reaction to Spike.
- Darla: has she gone home to her father or is daddy used in a different way? She is more Cordelia than Darla. Is that deliberate?
Bravo at taking the plunge.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-18 08:15 am (UTC)And right here's where I felt like the story really kicked in. The descriptions and dialogue following that are all very sharp, and the tension mixed with defiance from Spike's end and a desire to dominate from Angel's drives this along and is fully engaging.
Definitely looking forward to part two.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-18 09:06 am (UTC)Wonderful start, and yes as another sick old bag I adore how this appears to be heading.......
no subject
Date: 2004-12-18 10:02 am (UTC)Can't wait for part 2.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-18 12:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-12 04:48 pm (UTC)Before I continue working on this I have one question: How ugly and non-con would you like this to get. Very strong persuasion, genuine rape? Kinky? Not so kinky? Could you give me a hint what you'd like to see?
no subject
Date: 2005-01-12 11:48 pm (UTC)Basically, I'd prefer you'd go with the level of non con that you feel not only comfortable writing, but that you think would best fit the fic and the situation.
Don't feel forced to bring in kink just cause you feel obligated to do so.
Even if I am evil.;-)
no subject
Date: 2004-12-18 01:14 pm (UTC)The gun thing was hot!
Am definitely looking forward to the second part!
no subject
Date: 2005-01-16 05:43 pm (UTC)I posted the second part - but it's not the conclusion. I decided to make this a bit longer. There will be four parts, all in all. I hope.
Thank you for commenting. I was very nervous about this story because I am writing outside my comfort zone...
no subject
Date: 2004-12-18 03:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-18 05:40 pm (UTC)Like the others, I found the scene with the gun very hot!!! How sick does that make me. I liked the entire set up. I can't wait to see what Angel does with those toys.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-19 12:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-16 05:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-19 12:04 pm (UTC)Biting my fingernails until I can read part 2 (also a bit scared).
no subject
Date: 2004-12-20 11:26 am (UTC)I'm looking forward to the rest of this.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-21 08:14 pm (UTC)OMG!!11Thisrockzyouhavetohavemore!!11111Likenow!!
Since that's out of the way, I can't wait for part two. Wonderful. :)
no subject
Date: 2004-12-22 07:29 am (UTC)This feels so wrong, you know? LOL.
I don't know when I'll have the time to continue this. House guests, last minute Christmas shopping.... Bah.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-21 10:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-22 01:31 am (UTC)*hug*
Have a good Christmas.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-22 04:39 am (UTC)midnight
no subject
Date: 2004-12-22 07:21 am (UTC)It will be difficult finding the time to continue this. *sigh*
Christmas kinda gets in the way.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-23 02:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-16 05:40 pm (UTC)Anyway, I posted a new part (the story expanded and will be a four-parter), in case you're still interested. Updates should be more regular now. With
no subject
Date: 2005-01-01 04:35 pm (UTC)