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estepheiaThe perviness ends. Thank god... and thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sangpassionne who helped me every step of the way!
TITLE: Lucky - Part 10/10 *** complete***
PAIRING: Spike/Angel (both are human); Spike/Riley (backstory), Spike/Gunn
RATING: NC-17
WARNINGS: slash, non-con, strong language, violence, bondage, use of sex toys, threesome, prostitution - in other words: this is not nice. Don't read it, if this kind of thing doesn't float your boat. I mean it.
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
Written forsangpassionne's human AU Spangel Ficathon. Cross-posted to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sickchicks.
Beta'd bysangpassionne.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9
Part 10
Hope soared for a brief moment, then nose-dived like a shot down double-decker plane. Angel wasn't stupid, he wouldn't have brought the other man if he didn't think he could control the situation.
"I'm fine," Spike choked out, "a happy camper, like he said."
Okay, so he was unable to keep his voice sarcasm-free. But he'd swallowed a 'Just twitchy 'cause I missed breakfast' – that had to account for something, right?
The hand on his shoulder gave the collar a slight yank that caused the metal prongs to scrape against Spike's collarbone. A very definite warning.
"Look, can we get started?" Spike asked, almost meaning it.
"Take him out," Angel said. Spike heard him walk off, and sit down in his armchair. Getting comfortable for his own private peep show. Probably reaching for his camera too.
Spike wrestled down his loathing. Maybe if he broke this up into small steps, baby steps, it would get easier. Taking a deep breath, Spike raised his hands to grope around in the dark. The bed was directly in front him, and Angel had been to his right, so the visitor – Angel had called him Charlie – had to be standing to the left of him. Yup. He encountered a leg dressed in coarse fabric, denim, and let his hands slide upwards until he reached the man's crotch, then ventured further north for the button. There. Pop. And now the zipper. Down. Underneath: fabric, cotton, still bearing the smell of fresh laundry, loose fit… definitely boxer shirts. Spike tentatively wormed his hand into the slit…
Warm skin, smooth and silky, encasing flesh that was still soft to Spike's ginger touch. As Spike eased the man's dick out of his boxers, he also released a hint of male musk and soap, a surprisingly good earthy smell.
Clickety-clack, the camera went. And again.
Since Angel gave no further instructions, Spike just held Charlie's cock in his hand, feeling it swell and grow heavy in his grasp.
A warm hand touched Spike's back, fingertips trailing northwards, past the nape of his neck and into his hair, as though to groom the damp strands. Spike wasn't surprised when the hand nudged him towards the cock he was holding. The thing that surprised him was the gentleness of the gesture.
Still he hesitated.
"Do it. Let him take charge," Angel said in between clickety-clacks, as though he was reading Spike's mind.
So that's what Spike did. He opened his mouth and let Charlie's hand guide him.
He sucked and licked for several minutes, exploring the shape and size of the man's cock, balls, and sac through touch and taste instead of sight. A nice cut cock, smaller than Angel's, but not by much, surrounded by perfectly waxed skin.
Charlie began to gently rock his hips.
There was a hypnotic quality to the rhythmic backward and forward slide of silky skin in and out of Spike's mouth. The friction was starting to feel good. Spike was still far from aroused, but his cock, which had always had a mind of its own, was beginning to take an interest.
The wet sucking and slurping noises he was producing seemed way too loud in Spike's ears. Eventually, Spike realized that the camera was silent, which could only mean that Angel's hands were busy elsewhere. He concentrated on the other sounds in the room: heavy breathing, Charlie's and his own, and from a few yards away the whap-whap-whap of skin chafing against skin in a punishing rhythm, fast and harsh strokes. Spike found himself sucking harder, moving faster. Fuck, why did the sound of Angel furiously jerking off send a spark of lust to his groin?
Spike gasped around the hot and hard flesh in his mouth, when a gentle but sudden tug on the nipple chain sent a small explosion of heat and pain through his entire body.
"Stop," Charlie said, as he pulled out. "Don't move."
It sounded more like a request than an order, yet Spike's heart started to race anyway. Part of him was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He stayed on his haunches, breathing heavily, twitchy from the painful-yet-pleasurable tightness in his nipples, listening to sounds of shoes being toed off, of clothes being pushed down and discarded.
"Stand up," Charlie said, "slowly. And then I'd like you to get on the bed. On your back."
The bed wasn't far. Spike made it without mishap. He stretched out, cuffed hands above his head, the way Angel liked it. The sheets felt smooth under his back, and they smelled clean and fresh.
"No need to be nervous." Starting at the top, Charlie ran skilled fingers over Spike's body, briefly examining his chafed wrists, then tugging lightly on the chain that connected Spike's nipples, before traveling south to touch Spike's cock. "Okay, let me fix that," Charlie said, and the leather strap was briefly loosened only to be reattached much more firmly.
The exploration continued, with warm hands examining Spike's balls and sac, stroking his thighs and calves, touching his ankles and briefly tickling the soles of his feet and the sensitive spots between his toes, a source of exquisite pleasure that only Tara had ever discovered and touched. Spike could not help twitching.
The thin chain round his ankles was unlocked, and discarded. Then the hands traveled back, slowly, steadily. Strong thumbs took the route of his inner legs, pushing upwards, exerting pressure on his inner calves and thighs, expertly spreading him open.
Maybe it was because the hands that were touching him were coaxing, instead of demanding, assuring instead of gleefully stripping him of will and dignity, but Spike felt his cock throb against the tight leather strap, felt it grow to full, urgent hardness.
'Touch me,' he thought disjointedly, toes curling, arching slightly like a cat basking in sunlight. Please, oh god, please….
He exhaled explosively, when warm fingers touched the root of his cock, checking the more than snug fit of the cock ring.
"Sorry, man," Charlie said, sounding like he meant it. "I know it's tight, but your master said you have a mind of your own."
'Master.' Spike hated that word, but before he could refute it even in his head, the thought got shoved aside, jostled to the sideline along with any irritation and shame he felt. Spike was ready for almost anything, for the intrusion of fingers or toys up his butt, for more vigorous mouth-fucking, or more painful nipple stimulation, but not for the warm and wet sensation of soft lips closing around the head of his own cock, expertly sucking and licking. Not for the mind-blowing swirl and play of Charlie's slick agile tongue up and down Spike's rock-hard shaft, and definitely not for that skilled wet mouth and – ooh my! – that tight tight throat taking him in right… down… to his balls. Fuck!
Christ this was good. Spike whimpered, his determination to stay silent forgotten. His fingers twitched, eager to curl into hair, and suddenly they no longer rested on the pillow above his head, but touched short-cropped afro-curly hair on a nicely rounded skull, not to push, just to feel that up-and-downwards motion under his hands.
Later he realized that the blindfold made perfect sense. If you didn't see what was coming, you couldn't brace yourself, couldn't keep a tight rein on those sighs and moans. It also blotted out Angel's presence, the man's smirk and intense stare that had always strengthened Spike's resolve to fight. Even the harsh clatter of the camera shutter assumed an abstract quality, just white noise, unable to distract from the intense pleasure that was funneled into his body through his cock.
Spike understood vaguely that he was in the hands of an expert hustler who brought all his experience to the task of getting him worked up, licking, and nibbling, stroking and kneading his entire body, honing him to a perfect edge, but the knowledge changed nothing.
He heard a strangled shout once, and it took him a full minute that he'd just heard Angel spend himself into his hand, and then that thought spiraled out of his consciousness again, because he needed… needed… more.
Again and again, Spike was deepthroated, and sometimes Charlie hummed around his cock, causing delicious vibrations,. He arched into that warmwetsofthot mouth, more more more and then the mouth was gone, replaced by strong fingers and he was flipped over and spread open, molded like a limp doll and a tongue lapped at his hole, licking and pushing, lathering and dipping inside, opening him up, making him twitch and moan, so fucking good, he couldn't help writhing and dragging his cock against the mattress… humping, humping….
Of course he was flipped over again, on his back, and then the mouth was back sucking his cock, faster and faster and Spike pushed back against the fingers that probed his hole, impaling himself without hesitation Oh Fuck Yes
Brimming with desperate need, his body strained towards an explosive release, faster and faster, closer, closer, towards the brink, there, yes -- and then the strokes and sucks that whipped him forward stopped, and the strap, and a firm pinch round the base of his cock, yanked him back from the edge, once, twice, and again, each time more frustrating and painful than the last.
His body was burning up doused in sweat his nipples on fire sending blasts of heatpainpleasure all over his body in concentric waves and his cock felt like it was about to burst and by god the pressure in his balls was like nothing he'd ever felt before and this was more than he could take please god please please please….
"Please."
When the word finally spilled out Spike didn't even know what he was begging for.
"'Please' what?" a voice asked. Angel's voice. Hoarse. Breathless.
Stop. Go on. More. No more. "Please." Spike shook his head.
Anything, just to make that exquisite torture stop. But 'anything' was stuck in Spike's throat. He twitched, trying to force the fingers – no, the fingers had long been replaced by something thicker and harder – trying to force the thick plug deeper inside. A second pair of hands pushed him down, held him in place, but Spike had already lost all ability to count.
Voices clashed over his head, one angry and breathless, the other calm, soothing, talking about fists and boundaries inside of heads; and Spike didn't understand anything they were saying and he didn't care, not anymore.
A heavy body knelt down between his thighs. Strong hands lifted his hips off the mattress, the plug was pulled out, leaving behind an aching sense of loss, and then there was a slick blunt pressure against his hole. He jerked down, yes, more, and he knew it was Angel's cock without having to see it, because he knew those large hands that held him tight, that kept him suspended.
A thumb wormed itself between his lips, coaxing his jaws apart, not that he needed a lot of persuading, and then a cock, Charlie's, slowly pushed into Spike's mouth. He relaxed his throat, sucking eagerly. His hands flew to his cock, but were caught before he could make contact with his aching flesh. He whined around the cock in his mouth, please please please, and then a hand fumbled with the clamps, taking them off, and fuck, his nipples throbbed and throbbed like fuck, but so good, and drip drip drip something hit his chest and belly, beads of wetness, come, no, sweat, because Charlie was slithering down Spike's belly, tongue dipping into his navel and then…
Lips. Sliding down his cock, taking him in deeper and deeper and finally the strap came undone and Spike bucked, down on the thick cock that was teasing his grasping hole and it bullied inside too fast too deep, almost splitting him in two and yet so welcome and good, causing a shockwave of pleasure to race all over his body into his limbs and toes and fingers.
He came with a shuddering keening intake of breath, for a moment hovering in the air, then slamming down again, down on Angel's cock, again and again, riding him feverishly, riding the crest of his orgasm, twitching and writhing and thrusting into the hot mouth around his cock, the cock in his mouth thrusting in and out in the same rhythm.
Salty wetness erupted in Spike's mouth, and he swallowed automatically, eagerly. The pounding in his ass continued, hard thrusts, pushing him over the cliff again, wringing another climax from Spike's softening cock, and this time when he convulsed and jerked uncontrollably…
* * *
Angel came with a roar, a primeval sound that had to have been buried deep inside him. Again and again, as though trying to spill more than just his spunk into his twitching prisoner, Angel slammed into the warm silken tightness that encased his cock, pushing Spike upwards into Gunn's waiting mouth. Losing himself in that complicated tangle of sweat-slick limbs.
It was better than anything he could have ever imagined.
* * *
For a long time Spike was unable to form any coherent thought. The blindfold was gone, but he kept his eyes closed anyway, dispassionately breathing in the heady smells of sweat and spunk, listening to the other two men taking turns in the shower. Listening to his own strong, exultant heartbeat. Listening to Angel and Charlie getting dressed. To the dry rustle of dollar bills being counted and pocketed. Someone approached, and a soft kiss was planted on Spike's sweat-damp brow. The footsteps drew away, heading towards the staircase.
Wait. Spike turned his head, wincing when bright sunlight pierced his eyes. Purple spots danced in front of him, but he wanted to see. Him.
Young, black – which he'd guessed from the feel of the hair – full beautiful lips – which he knew because he'd felt them on his body. A good face, open. Shouldn't a whore look more jaded? Whore. An ugly word for someone so… beautiful.
Charlie saw him, smiled.
Spike smiled back, a lazy languid smile. Wondered vaguely if Charlie served women too.
Then Charlie disappeared downstairs, and Angel, who was following him to let him out, shot Spike a parting glance in which resentment struggled against reason.
Spike swallowed.
* * *
"I take it, getting fucked by two cocks at the same time was supposed to be twice as character building?" Spike sniped, when Angel came back up. But his voice still held a toffee quality, a languid, sated tone. Sounding well-fucked rather than angry. At least for now.
Angel pondered a 'whores can't be choosy,' but tiredly settled for "you liked it, so shut up," instead.
He couldn't help staring at his prisoner, who's skin was still pink and flushed. Even Spike's frown couldn't distract from the fact that he was practically glowing from the inside. For an insane moment Angel wished he could capture that glow; wished he were able to peruse it again and again. A wish that made about as much sense as wanting to lock up shafts of sunlight in a cage.
"You're gonna shoot me now?" Spike asked, sounding calm, almost serene, like he didn't care either way.
Killing him would be easy. Messy, but easy. Yet it also meant crossing a line Angel had thought he'd never cross.
"I never killed a man I didn't have to," Angel said ambiguously, but even as he spoke his hand reached for his gun. He pulled it from its shoulder holster, relishing its comforting weight in his hand, and checked the chambers, but in truth he was furtively watching his prisoner. Waiting for something.
Maybe waiting to feel anger or disgust for his prisoner, but that fire had burnt its course. Or maybe waiting to see fear reemerge, that intoxicating panic that had brought Spike to his knees the first time.
However, Spike looked on in stony silence. Angel knew, there and then, that there was something in his prisoner that he'd never be able to touch.
"I'm not about to start now," he said, shoving the weapon into its holster. To think that he'd even considered…. He dug out the key. "Gimme your hands."
Spike sat up, uncurling like a big cat, and offered his wrists.
Angel unlocked the cuffs with practiced ease, careful, in case his prisoner decided to make a grab for the gun, then took them off, and slipped them into his back pocket. "There you go. You're free to leave."
For several seconds Spike just sat there, rubbing his wrists, which still bore the marks of his captivity. Angel had seen that kind of forlorn and incredulous expression before, on the faces of convicts when they were released after long-term imprisonment: like a rabbit scared by the open cage door.
"I'll need my pants."
Angel retrieved the bundle from the walk-in closet and tossed it on the bed.
Spike pulled the clothes towards him, and briskly put them on.
"I want my suit," Spike finally said.
"What?"
Spike raised his head and leveled a chilling gaze at him. His voice was flat when he spoke. "The suit I earned, the Armani you said was worth a grand."
The cheek! Angel's anger flared up, but common sense caught up with it easily. Spike was right, he had earned it.
Angel strode into the closet, snatched up three random suits by their hangers and tossed them on the bed. "Pick one," he said. "I doubt it'll fit, but you're right, one of them is yours."
Spike didn't look at the Armanis; he was watching Angel with disconcerting intensity. Angel stiffened, throwing back his shoulders, when something inside his stomach clenched sickeningly. He wondered what it was. It couldn't be guilt or shame. Spike had had it coming. But the feeling grew, tiny, sobering pinpricks of wrongness. Suddenly, he couldn't get rid of Spike fast enough. "You know what? Take'm all," he said, gathering the suits up again and dumping them in Spike's arms.
Clutching the three suits, Spike wordlessly picked up his shoes, then slunk down the winding staircase, casting wary glances behind him, as though he expected Angel to change his mind.
Angel followed him, but instead of escorting his prisoner to the front door, he paused at the bottom of the stairs. "See that door?" he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Just let yourself out." He felt tired, drained, with a taste like ashes in his mouth. He headed for the liquor cabinet and poured himself a Bourbon. Straight, no ice.
A picture of him, Darla, and Connor sat on the sideboard, one he'd taken less than six months ago with the tripod and the Nikon's auto-function. He picked it up, and ran his thumb over the three smiling faces that beamed out of the frame. Shiny happy people.
Angel put the frame back and picked up the large brown envelope that had lain there for the past week, unopened. Inside were several large prints, grainy black-and-white photographs taken through a telephoto lens. They resembled surveillance shots but they didn't show the usual hookers and perps, but Darla and her lover, Lindsey, laughing, arms slung around each other. Sharing a smile, much like the one Charles and Spike had exchanged.
Life's a bitch.
Behind him, the door was opened.
"You were lucky, this time," Angel said over his shoulder, letting the hand with the envelope fall to his side, not caring that the prints scattered to the floor. "But If I ever catch you breaking into someone else's house again, I won't let you off so easily." He almost sounded like he meant it.
"Lucky, yeah." Spike gave a hollow laugh.
Angel picked up his glass and peered into the amber mirror in his glass as though it held the answer to a multitude of questions. He could feel the other man's eyes on him, branding him with their intensity.
After half a dozen uncomfortable seconds, the front door closed with a soft click.
Angel downed his drink, slammed down the empty glass, and flipped the family photograph over, face-down.
Game over.
Epilogue
Bright sunlight and fresh air greeted him. Spike paused ten steps outside the condo to take a deep breath. Then he stooped to put on his trainers. He'd forgotten his socks, but no way was he going back inside for them. He had no intention of ever setting foot into Angel's apartment again. Luckily, he didn't have to.
The money was hidden inside a shoebox on one of the top shelves of that fancy walk-in closet: ten thousand in cash, complete with the detective's prints. A pack of cocaine from the same bust, also bearing Angel's prints. Stuff the detective had handled but which had miraculously disappeared on its way from bust to precinct. The IA would find these very interesting, once an anonymous phone call alerted them to their presence.
Spike had been pulling favors left, right, and center for this. Riley would disapprove, but he'd always been a good guy anyway, unlike Spike, and besides, he was dead and had no say in how he'd be avenged. Fact was, if Spike didn't make Detective Liam Angel pay, nobody would.
There was a certain poetic justice in the fact, that the detective would trip over something he hadn't actually done. After all, Riley had also gone to jail for a crime he hadn't committed, taking the fall for one of the detective's chums.
Spike squinted into the sunlight, basking in its warmth. It would be a long walk home. Christ, he wished he could call Tara, if only to tell her to stop worrying, that he was safe and on his way home, but he didn't even have a quarter for the phone. Just three expensive Armani suits hanging over his arm.
Three houses further down, a well-built man was loading soda cases into the trunk of his car. Maybe Spike would swap him the suits for a bit of cash, enough to pay for a phone call and a cab home.
It wasn't like Angel's Armanis fit him anyhow.
END
sangpassionne who helped me every step of the way!TITLE: Lucky - Part 10/10 *** complete***
PAIRING: Spike/Angel (both are human); Spike/Riley (backstory), Spike/Gunn
RATING: NC-17
WARNINGS: slash, non-con, strong language, violence, bondage, use of sex toys, threesome, prostitution - in other words: this is not nice. Don't read it, if this kind of thing doesn't float your boat. I mean it.
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
Written for
sangpassionne's human AU Spangel Ficathon. Cross-posted to sickchicks.Beta'd by
sangpassionne.Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9
Part 10
Hope soared for a brief moment, then nose-dived like a shot down double-decker plane. Angel wasn't stupid, he wouldn't have brought the other man if he didn't think he could control the situation.
"I'm fine," Spike choked out, "a happy camper, like he said."
Okay, so he was unable to keep his voice sarcasm-free. But he'd swallowed a 'Just twitchy 'cause I missed breakfast' – that had to account for something, right?
The hand on his shoulder gave the collar a slight yank that caused the metal prongs to scrape against Spike's collarbone. A very definite warning.
"Look, can we get started?" Spike asked, almost meaning it.
"Take him out," Angel said. Spike heard him walk off, and sit down in his armchair. Getting comfortable for his own private peep show. Probably reaching for his camera too.
Spike wrestled down his loathing. Maybe if he broke this up into small steps, baby steps, it would get easier. Taking a deep breath, Spike raised his hands to grope around in the dark. The bed was directly in front him, and Angel had been to his right, so the visitor – Angel had called him Charlie – had to be standing to the left of him. Yup. He encountered a leg dressed in coarse fabric, denim, and let his hands slide upwards until he reached the man's crotch, then ventured further north for the button. There. Pop. And now the zipper. Down. Underneath: fabric, cotton, still bearing the smell of fresh laundry, loose fit… definitely boxer shirts. Spike tentatively wormed his hand into the slit…
Warm skin, smooth and silky, encasing flesh that was still soft to Spike's ginger touch. As Spike eased the man's dick out of his boxers, he also released a hint of male musk and soap, a surprisingly good earthy smell.
Clickety-clack, the camera went. And again.
Since Angel gave no further instructions, Spike just held Charlie's cock in his hand, feeling it swell and grow heavy in his grasp.
A warm hand touched Spike's back, fingertips trailing northwards, past the nape of his neck and into his hair, as though to groom the damp strands. Spike wasn't surprised when the hand nudged him towards the cock he was holding. The thing that surprised him was the gentleness of the gesture.
Still he hesitated.
"Do it. Let him take charge," Angel said in between clickety-clacks, as though he was reading Spike's mind.
So that's what Spike did. He opened his mouth and let Charlie's hand guide him.
He sucked and licked for several minutes, exploring the shape and size of the man's cock, balls, and sac through touch and taste instead of sight. A nice cut cock, smaller than Angel's, but not by much, surrounded by perfectly waxed skin.
Charlie began to gently rock his hips.
There was a hypnotic quality to the rhythmic backward and forward slide of silky skin in and out of Spike's mouth. The friction was starting to feel good. Spike was still far from aroused, but his cock, which had always had a mind of its own, was beginning to take an interest.
The wet sucking and slurping noises he was producing seemed way too loud in Spike's ears. Eventually, Spike realized that the camera was silent, which could only mean that Angel's hands were busy elsewhere. He concentrated on the other sounds in the room: heavy breathing, Charlie's and his own, and from a few yards away the whap-whap-whap of skin chafing against skin in a punishing rhythm, fast and harsh strokes. Spike found himself sucking harder, moving faster. Fuck, why did the sound of Angel furiously jerking off send a spark of lust to his groin?
Spike gasped around the hot and hard flesh in his mouth, when a gentle but sudden tug on the nipple chain sent a small explosion of heat and pain through his entire body.
"Stop," Charlie said, as he pulled out. "Don't move."
It sounded more like a request than an order, yet Spike's heart started to race anyway. Part of him was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He stayed on his haunches, breathing heavily, twitchy from the painful-yet-pleasurable tightness in his nipples, listening to sounds of shoes being toed off, of clothes being pushed down and discarded.
"Stand up," Charlie said, "slowly. And then I'd like you to get on the bed. On your back."
The bed wasn't far. Spike made it without mishap. He stretched out, cuffed hands above his head, the way Angel liked it. The sheets felt smooth under his back, and they smelled clean and fresh.
"No need to be nervous." Starting at the top, Charlie ran skilled fingers over Spike's body, briefly examining his chafed wrists, then tugging lightly on the chain that connected Spike's nipples, before traveling south to touch Spike's cock. "Okay, let me fix that," Charlie said, and the leather strap was briefly loosened only to be reattached much more firmly.
The exploration continued, with warm hands examining Spike's balls and sac, stroking his thighs and calves, touching his ankles and briefly tickling the soles of his feet and the sensitive spots between his toes, a source of exquisite pleasure that only Tara had ever discovered and touched. Spike could not help twitching.
The thin chain round his ankles was unlocked, and discarded. Then the hands traveled back, slowly, steadily. Strong thumbs took the route of his inner legs, pushing upwards, exerting pressure on his inner calves and thighs, expertly spreading him open.
Maybe it was because the hands that were touching him were coaxing, instead of demanding, assuring instead of gleefully stripping him of will and dignity, but Spike felt his cock throb against the tight leather strap, felt it grow to full, urgent hardness.
'Touch me,' he thought disjointedly, toes curling, arching slightly like a cat basking in sunlight. Please, oh god, please….
He exhaled explosively, when warm fingers touched the root of his cock, checking the more than snug fit of the cock ring.
"Sorry, man," Charlie said, sounding like he meant it. "I know it's tight, but your master said you have a mind of your own."
'Master.' Spike hated that word, but before he could refute it even in his head, the thought got shoved aside, jostled to the sideline along with any irritation and shame he felt. Spike was ready for almost anything, for the intrusion of fingers or toys up his butt, for more vigorous mouth-fucking, or more painful nipple stimulation, but not for the warm and wet sensation of soft lips closing around the head of his own cock, expertly sucking and licking. Not for the mind-blowing swirl and play of Charlie's slick agile tongue up and down Spike's rock-hard shaft, and definitely not for that skilled wet mouth and – ooh my! – that tight tight throat taking him in right… down… to his balls. Fuck!
Christ this was good. Spike whimpered, his determination to stay silent forgotten. His fingers twitched, eager to curl into hair, and suddenly they no longer rested on the pillow above his head, but touched short-cropped afro-curly hair on a nicely rounded skull, not to push, just to feel that up-and-downwards motion under his hands.
Later he realized that the blindfold made perfect sense. If you didn't see what was coming, you couldn't brace yourself, couldn't keep a tight rein on those sighs and moans. It also blotted out Angel's presence, the man's smirk and intense stare that had always strengthened Spike's resolve to fight. Even the harsh clatter of the camera shutter assumed an abstract quality, just white noise, unable to distract from the intense pleasure that was funneled into his body through his cock.
Spike understood vaguely that he was in the hands of an expert hustler who brought all his experience to the task of getting him worked up, licking, and nibbling, stroking and kneading his entire body, honing him to a perfect edge, but the knowledge changed nothing.
He heard a strangled shout once, and it took him a full minute that he'd just heard Angel spend himself into his hand, and then that thought spiraled out of his consciousness again, because he needed… needed… more.
Again and again, Spike was deepthroated, and sometimes Charlie hummed around his cock, causing delicious vibrations,. He arched into that warmwetsofthot mouth, more more more and then the mouth was gone, replaced by strong fingers and he was flipped over and spread open, molded like a limp doll and a tongue lapped at his hole, licking and pushing, lathering and dipping inside, opening him up, making him twitch and moan, so fucking good, he couldn't help writhing and dragging his cock against the mattress… humping, humping….
Of course he was flipped over again, on his back, and then the mouth was back sucking his cock, faster and faster and Spike pushed back against the fingers that probed his hole, impaling himself without hesitation Oh Fuck Yes
Brimming with desperate need, his body strained towards an explosive release, faster and faster, closer, closer, towards the brink, there, yes -- and then the strokes and sucks that whipped him forward stopped, and the strap, and a firm pinch round the base of his cock, yanked him back from the edge, once, twice, and again, each time more frustrating and painful than the last.
His body was burning up doused in sweat his nipples on fire sending blasts of heatpainpleasure all over his body in concentric waves and his cock felt like it was about to burst and by god the pressure in his balls was like nothing he'd ever felt before and this was more than he could take please god please please please….
"Please."
When the word finally spilled out Spike didn't even know what he was begging for.
"'Please' what?" a voice asked. Angel's voice. Hoarse. Breathless.
Stop. Go on. More. No more. "Please." Spike shook his head.
Anything, just to make that exquisite torture stop. But 'anything' was stuck in Spike's throat. He twitched, trying to force the fingers – no, the fingers had long been replaced by something thicker and harder – trying to force the thick plug deeper inside. A second pair of hands pushed him down, held him in place, but Spike had already lost all ability to count.
Voices clashed over his head, one angry and breathless, the other calm, soothing, talking about fists and boundaries inside of heads; and Spike didn't understand anything they were saying and he didn't care, not anymore.
A heavy body knelt down between his thighs. Strong hands lifted his hips off the mattress, the plug was pulled out, leaving behind an aching sense of loss, and then there was a slick blunt pressure against his hole. He jerked down, yes, more, and he knew it was Angel's cock without having to see it, because he knew those large hands that held him tight, that kept him suspended.
A thumb wormed itself between his lips, coaxing his jaws apart, not that he needed a lot of persuading, and then a cock, Charlie's, slowly pushed into Spike's mouth. He relaxed his throat, sucking eagerly. His hands flew to his cock, but were caught before he could make contact with his aching flesh. He whined around the cock in his mouth, please please please, and then a hand fumbled with the clamps, taking them off, and fuck, his nipples throbbed and throbbed like fuck, but so good, and drip drip drip something hit his chest and belly, beads of wetness, come, no, sweat, because Charlie was slithering down Spike's belly, tongue dipping into his navel and then…
Lips. Sliding down his cock, taking him in deeper and deeper and finally the strap came undone and Spike bucked, down on the thick cock that was teasing his grasping hole and it bullied inside too fast too deep, almost splitting him in two and yet so welcome and good, causing a shockwave of pleasure to race all over his body into his limbs and toes and fingers.
He came with a shuddering keening intake of breath, for a moment hovering in the air, then slamming down again, down on Angel's cock, again and again, riding him feverishly, riding the crest of his orgasm, twitching and writhing and thrusting into the hot mouth around his cock, the cock in his mouth thrusting in and out in the same rhythm.
Salty wetness erupted in Spike's mouth, and he swallowed automatically, eagerly. The pounding in his ass continued, hard thrusts, pushing him over the cliff again, wringing another climax from Spike's softening cock, and this time when he convulsed and jerked uncontrollably…
* * *
Angel came with a roar, a primeval sound that had to have been buried deep inside him. Again and again, as though trying to spill more than just his spunk into his twitching prisoner, Angel slammed into the warm silken tightness that encased his cock, pushing Spike upwards into Gunn's waiting mouth. Losing himself in that complicated tangle of sweat-slick limbs.
It was better than anything he could have ever imagined.
* * *
For a long time Spike was unable to form any coherent thought. The blindfold was gone, but he kept his eyes closed anyway, dispassionately breathing in the heady smells of sweat and spunk, listening to the other two men taking turns in the shower. Listening to his own strong, exultant heartbeat. Listening to Angel and Charlie getting dressed. To the dry rustle of dollar bills being counted and pocketed. Someone approached, and a soft kiss was planted on Spike's sweat-damp brow. The footsteps drew away, heading towards the staircase.
Wait. Spike turned his head, wincing when bright sunlight pierced his eyes. Purple spots danced in front of him, but he wanted to see. Him.
Young, black – which he'd guessed from the feel of the hair – full beautiful lips – which he knew because he'd felt them on his body. A good face, open. Shouldn't a whore look more jaded? Whore. An ugly word for someone so… beautiful.
Charlie saw him, smiled.
Spike smiled back, a lazy languid smile. Wondered vaguely if Charlie served women too.
Then Charlie disappeared downstairs, and Angel, who was following him to let him out, shot Spike a parting glance in which resentment struggled against reason.
Spike swallowed.
* * *
"I take it, getting fucked by two cocks at the same time was supposed to be twice as character building?" Spike sniped, when Angel came back up. But his voice still held a toffee quality, a languid, sated tone. Sounding well-fucked rather than angry. At least for now.
Angel pondered a 'whores can't be choosy,' but tiredly settled for "you liked it, so shut up," instead.
He couldn't help staring at his prisoner, who's skin was still pink and flushed. Even Spike's frown couldn't distract from the fact that he was practically glowing from the inside. For an insane moment Angel wished he could capture that glow; wished he were able to peruse it again and again. A wish that made about as much sense as wanting to lock up shafts of sunlight in a cage.
"You're gonna shoot me now?" Spike asked, sounding calm, almost serene, like he didn't care either way.
Killing him would be easy. Messy, but easy. Yet it also meant crossing a line Angel had thought he'd never cross.
"I never killed a man I didn't have to," Angel said ambiguously, but even as he spoke his hand reached for his gun. He pulled it from its shoulder holster, relishing its comforting weight in his hand, and checked the chambers, but in truth he was furtively watching his prisoner. Waiting for something.
Maybe waiting to feel anger or disgust for his prisoner, but that fire had burnt its course. Or maybe waiting to see fear reemerge, that intoxicating panic that had brought Spike to his knees the first time.
However, Spike looked on in stony silence. Angel knew, there and then, that there was something in his prisoner that he'd never be able to touch.
"I'm not about to start now," he said, shoving the weapon into its holster. To think that he'd even considered…. He dug out the key. "Gimme your hands."
Spike sat up, uncurling like a big cat, and offered his wrists.
Angel unlocked the cuffs with practiced ease, careful, in case his prisoner decided to make a grab for the gun, then took them off, and slipped them into his back pocket. "There you go. You're free to leave."
For several seconds Spike just sat there, rubbing his wrists, which still bore the marks of his captivity. Angel had seen that kind of forlorn and incredulous expression before, on the faces of convicts when they were released after long-term imprisonment: like a rabbit scared by the open cage door.
"I'll need my pants."
Angel retrieved the bundle from the walk-in closet and tossed it on the bed.
Spike pulled the clothes towards him, and briskly put them on.
"I want my suit," Spike finally said.
"What?"
Spike raised his head and leveled a chilling gaze at him. His voice was flat when he spoke. "The suit I earned, the Armani you said was worth a grand."
The cheek! Angel's anger flared up, but common sense caught up with it easily. Spike was right, he had earned it.
Angel strode into the closet, snatched up three random suits by their hangers and tossed them on the bed. "Pick one," he said. "I doubt it'll fit, but you're right, one of them is yours."
Spike didn't look at the Armanis; he was watching Angel with disconcerting intensity. Angel stiffened, throwing back his shoulders, when something inside his stomach clenched sickeningly. He wondered what it was. It couldn't be guilt or shame. Spike had had it coming. But the feeling grew, tiny, sobering pinpricks of wrongness. Suddenly, he couldn't get rid of Spike fast enough. "You know what? Take'm all," he said, gathering the suits up again and dumping them in Spike's arms.
Clutching the three suits, Spike wordlessly picked up his shoes, then slunk down the winding staircase, casting wary glances behind him, as though he expected Angel to change his mind.
Angel followed him, but instead of escorting his prisoner to the front door, he paused at the bottom of the stairs. "See that door?" he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Just let yourself out." He felt tired, drained, with a taste like ashes in his mouth. He headed for the liquor cabinet and poured himself a Bourbon. Straight, no ice.
A picture of him, Darla, and Connor sat on the sideboard, one he'd taken less than six months ago with the tripod and the Nikon's auto-function. He picked it up, and ran his thumb over the three smiling faces that beamed out of the frame. Shiny happy people.
Angel put the frame back and picked up the large brown envelope that had lain there for the past week, unopened. Inside were several large prints, grainy black-and-white photographs taken through a telephoto lens. They resembled surveillance shots but they didn't show the usual hookers and perps, but Darla and her lover, Lindsey, laughing, arms slung around each other. Sharing a smile, much like the one Charles and Spike had exchanged.
Life's a bitch.
Behind him, the door was opened.
"You were lucky, this time," Angel said over his shoulder, letting the hand with the envelope fall to his side, not caring that the prints scattered to the floor. "But If I ever catch you breaking into someone else's house again, I won't let you off so easily." He almost sounded like he meant it.
"Lucky, yeah." Spike gave a hollow laugh.
Angel picked up his glass and peered into the amber mirror in his glass as though it held the answer to a multitude of questions. He could feel the other man's eyes on him, branding him with their intensity.
After half a dozen uncomfortable seconds, the front door closed with a soft click.
Angel downed his drink, slammed down the empty glass, and flipped the family photograph over, face-down.
Game over.
Epilogue
Bright sunlight and fresh air greeted him. Spike paused ten steps outside the condo to take a deep breath. Then he stooped to put on his trainers. He'd forgotten his socks, but no way was he going back inside for them. He had no intention of ever setting foot into Angel's apartment again. Luckily, he didn't have to.
The money was hidden inside a shoebox on one of the top shelves of that fancy walk-in closet: ten thousand in cash, complete with the detective's prints. A pack of cocaine from the same bust, also bearing Angel's prints. Stuff the detective had handled but which had miraculously disappeared on its way from bust to precinct. The IA would find these very interesting, once an anonymous phone call alerted them to their presence.
Spike had been pulling favors left, right, and center for this. Riley would disapprove, but he'd always been a good guy anyway, unlike Spike, and besides, he was dead and had no say in how he'd be avenged. Fact was, if Spike didn't make Detective Liam Angel pay, nobody would.
There was a certain poetic justice in the fact, that the detective would trip over something he hadn't actually done. After all, Riley had also gone to jail for a crime he hadn't committed, taking the fall for one of the detective's chums.
Spike squinted into the sunlight, basking in its warmth. It would be a long walk home. Christ, he wished he could call Tara, if only to tell her to stop worrying, that he was safe and on his way home, but he didn't even have a quarter for the phone. Just three expensive Armani suits hanging over his arm.
Three houses further down, a well-built man was loading soda cases into the trunk of his car. Maybe Spike would swap him the suits for a bit of cash, enough to pay for a phone call and a cab home.
It wasn't like Angel's Armanis fit him anyhow.
END
