Disclaimer: A full disclaimer can be found here, but please be assured that none of this is mine.
Author’s Notes: Written for the maleslashmini challenge. The challenge can be found at the end of the fic. A lifetime of thanks to kitty_poker1 whose beta skills are legendary and who contributed so much to this fic.
Summary: AtS Season 5, Spike has always belonged to Angel. Souls, hatred and a hundred years of estrangement can’t change the truth.
“Oh, for…” Angel’s head drops into his hands as his door bursts inward, carrying Spike, Harmony and their argument into his office. His paperwork forgotten, he waits to hear what the issue is today.
“Bugger off, Harm.” Spike’s voice is raspy and Angel peeks through his fingers to see him rubbing his throat absently as he snarls in Harmony’s direction.
“No, Spike!” Harmony’s screech is suddenly aimed at him. “Angel, please tell Spike that he can’t just take over people’s space!”
Spike snorts as he shifts the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other. His hips move in the same rhythm and Angel looks to the ceiling, pretending not to notice.
“You’re not people, ducks, so why don’t you just go find some poor sucker to jet you off to Paris, yeah? Here.” Long fingers disappear into tight denim and reappear with a roll of bills that is thrust in Harmony’s direction. “Don’t let the door hit you on the arse…”
As the last sentence is uttered, Spike flops, boneless, into the chair opposite Angel’s desk, his booted feet quickly finding their way onto a legal document that could very well save somebody’s world. A quick glare from Angel and Harmony’s teeth are clacking together as she snaps her mouth shut.
“Spike,” Angel grunts, “move your feet.”
Harmony beams, turning to level Spike with a look. Her attempt is patently ignored by the object of her disdain as Spike has pulled a knife from somewhere and is using it to dig mud and other detritus out of the soles of his Docs.
“Harmony,” Angel continues, “get out.”
Stomping a Prada-encased foot, she spins on her heel and storms from the room, a cloud of heavily perfumed air trailing in her wake.
“Good riddance, that,” Spike mutters.
Angel sighs and finally drops his hands, giving his full attention to Spike. “What do you want?”
The smile that crosses Spike’s face makes Angel wish they were well away from his glass-encased office. Perhaps back in his glass-encased shower, Spike on his knees, his throat stuffed full, his cheeks bulging...
“What makes you think I want anything at all?” Spike asks, his voice still exhibiting all of the signs of trauma. “I could very well just need to spend a little time basking in the afterglow, as it were.” He smiles again and this time it’s a real smile, one that Angel can feel shooting warming sparks throughout his body.
He stands, moving around the desk to pull the knife from Spike’s lax fingers. “Your throat still sore?” he asks.
Spike’s head drops back as Angel’s fingers trail up and down his throat, as if stroking away the pain. “’S a good hurt, makes me remember…” He straightens as if becoming aware of his words and shoves Angel’s hand away, snarling.
“Remember what, Will?” Angel drops to his knees, his hands forcing back Spike’s head, his tongue following the trail his fingers have laid. “Makes you remember that you’re mine once more? Reminds you that no matter how old, how strong you are, you’ll always find yourself on your knees before me?”
A faint crunching sound heralds the arrival Angel’s fangs, just moments before they’re buried deep in Spike’s throat. Spike struggles, he always does, and Angel lifts his head, his tongue darting out to catch the thin line of blood trickling from his lips.
He pulls Spike’s head back up and just looks at him, ignoring the fear that Spike is broadcasting. His hands move over Spike’s head and neck, touching, owning, and he once again feels the undeniable attraction to this creature that he helped create.
Souls don’t change the demons, they only mask them.
He stands and throws Spike to the ground, his hand never releasing its fistful of hair. Game-faced, Spike struggles and kicks as Angel flips open the button of his trousers, tugs at the zip to hurry it along. Soon, he’s back where he always longs to be, deep within Spike’s throat, the demon and the man trembling before him, both in fear and desire.
This is their game, this is their past and present, this is their life. Demons, enemies, lovers. Family.
Your name: Mireille
Male character you want paired with Spike: Angel
Up to three things you want in your fic: snark/bickering, Angel's office at W&H, Harmony
Up to two things you don't want: the word "childe" or any variation thereof, schmoop/mush/excessive sentiment
Preferred rating: anything up to a strong R