Title: Shades of Red: Passion
“It’ll do, I suppose,” Spike sniffed, glaring up at the squat suburban house Angelus had secured for them. “Though I give it a week, tops, before the Slayer’s inviting herself round for another barbeque.”
“Button it, roller boy, or you’ll be fertilizing the roses.”
Drusilla appeared on the porch looking the tiniest bit nervous. “It’s very small, Angelus,” she quavered, her eyes darting between her bickering boys.
"Well, I was kind of limited in my choices. It's not exactly easy finding a house with a special needs ramp on the spur of the moment," Angelus shouted, giving Spike's wheelchair a push backwards.
"Don't yell at her, mate," Spike warned, quickly reaching down to stop the rolling, reversing his momentum and moving to Angelus' side with a quick rotation of the wheels. "Not her fault we had to leave the factory is it? It's your damned games that sent the watcher on the rampage, so don't go taking your fuck up out on her."
Leaving Angelus standing in the front garden, Spike maneuvered the chair up the ramp and deftly through the door. Give him another month and he wouldn’t need it at all.
Then suddenly and without warning, it was tipping and he was falling, sprawling backwards, his arms useless to catch himself. His head struck hard against the wooden doorsill and he cursed as a hand grabbed the front of his shirt, jerking him forward and up.
"Well then," Angelus said, bending dangerously close to Spike's face, "how about I take it out on you?"
Without another word Angelus grabbed Spike from the wheelchair, delighting when Spike's legs dangled uselessly even as his arms tried to fend off the attack, and tossed him away from the upturned wheelchair. For a second Spike lay prone on the carpeting shaking his head in an attempt to collect himself, then a sharp kick to his ribs saw him rolling and trying to curl, his curses now directed more at his attacker than his own broken limbs.
The sight of Drusilla’s face behind Angelus’ back silenced him. She was on the verge of screaming and that, as Spike well knew, would bring nothing good down on her head. Angelus must have noticed his expression because he turned, caught Dru’s arm and pulled her after them into the house, slamming the door on the coming dawn. With one finger he directed her towards the living room and the home's nearly dead inhabitants.
“Give them a decent sending off, Dru,” he said. “And take your time.”
Sufficiently distracted by the prospect of fun and games, Drusilla simpered at him and obeyed, her hips sashaying as she walked away from the men and into the darkened room.
Spike glared up at Angelus who returned it with a smug grin and said, “Think you can manage or does the cripple need to be carried.”
“Crawl over broken glass first, you wanker,” Spike muttered, righting the chair with one hand and struggled to pull himself into it.
Angelus kicked it away with a chortle of glee, “Nah ah. That’s cheating.” And when Spike lunged at him, he danced back easily out of reach adding, “Tell you what. You can have a, hmm, a ten second head start and if you make it to the kitchen before me, I’ll even refrain from crushing your arms.”
Digging his fingers into the carpet Spike hauled himself across the floor towards the rear of the house, using the strength in his upper body to propel himself forwards. He may as well have been crawling over broken glass as the shards of pain shot through his body, making his arms shake and his breath falter.
Unmoved, Angelus strolled along next to him, offering fake encouragement and insults couched as compliments.
When the tiled floor came within reach, Spike couldn’t conceal his relief. If he lost the use of his arms as well, it would all be over.
Apparently Angelus wasn’t so pleased. The second Spike’s fingers crossed the threshold, he grabbed the back of Spike’s shirt and heaved him up from the floor, dangling him like a puppy.
"Fucking put me down, you great pillock," Spike snarled, thrashing around and trying to lever himself upright on concertina limbs.
"And watch you crawl? Tempting but no. I've got a better idea."
Spike's struggles were pointless as Angelus dragged him past the kitchen to the back room of the house and tossed him onto the large bed, forcing shrieks of protestation from the bed's old springs. Spike flinched as the impact rattled through his barely healed bones; there were distinct downsides to getting feeling back in his limbs and having it hurt all over again was the main one.
Instead of joining Spike immediately, Angelus began prowling around the room, opening drawers and emptying dressers. Spike watched him quizzically for a while and then asked, “What are you gonna do now? Walk me to death?”
“Hush, boy,” Angelus growled. “I’ll get to you soon enough.”
Spike subsided into silence, his gaze flicking between Angelus and the occasional view of Drusilla pacing the living room as she crooned sweet words to her food. He tried calculating the odds of escaping but without his wheelchair it was nigh-on impossible.
Finally Angelus found what he was looking for, tossed a few items on to the bed and slid on after them. Before Spike could react, Angelus had his fist wrapped tightly in Spike’s hair, pulling his head closer so they were mouth to mouth.
Angelus' earlier meal lingered on his breath and Spike moaned as the scent awakened a need in his body that he had denied for far too long. "What do you want?" he asked, unable to turn his head away as long as Angelus held him.
“Seems I’ve been a bit neglectful since I got back,” Angelus purred, making Spike blink and tug away. Humming deep in the back of his throat, Angelus leaned forward and covered Spike's face from brows to chin in cat licks, reacquainting himself with the taste of long deserted family. “So busy playing with my girl, I forgot about her idiot offspring.”
"Sod off," Spike said through gritted teeth, averting his gaze from Angelus' eyes as they bore into him. “How 'bout you go stalk the Slayer, maybe watch the sunrise."
"You aren't in a position to be giving orders now, are you?"
Reaching behind him, Angelus grabbed what looked to Spike like a macramé plant hanger, and in a flash of movement had Spike's hands pulled over his head, stretching his back and pulling half-mended muscles until Spike couldn't help but scream out. Angelus lashed the rope, three times round and once between Spike’s wrists, inciting another yelp as the harsh yarn cut in, scoring vulnerable skin. Tying the other end around the solid metal headboard and giving the knot a final tug, Angelus sat back on his heels and stared at Spike, laughing as the man beneath him tried to escape his bonds.
His hands worked their way down Spike's chest, reaching the bottom of his untucked shirt and straying underneath to stroke and tease the taut muscles. Then, with a leer, he bent forwards, running his fingers up Spike's arms, and said, "See now, you have my full attention."
"Can't say as I was asking for it," Spike answered, yanking hard against the rope and cursing his stupidity for refusing to eat anything Dru brought him. Even blood in a furry package might have given him the strength he needed to escape.
A quick vault off the bed and Angelus was up again, pacing the room. He swung round pondering Spike's comment and smirked, “Were you not, now. And there was me thinking all your complaining was after exactly that. Little boy crying for his daddy’s attention.”
“Piss. Off!” Spike yelled, twisting and struggling, his movements becoming increasingly frantic, which just made Angelus laugh all the harder.
"Oh, William, you have no idea how much I've missed you coming to me, seeking my approval." Angelus crept back towards the bed, picking a silken red scarf from his pile of discovered treasure and winding it around his hands.
"Approval neither required nor requested, mate," Spike said, renewing his struggle, swearing as his legs remained idle and pathetically useless.
"Come on, all you've ever wanted is to please me." Angelus jumped onto the bed, knees landing on either side of Spike. For a moment he held his own weight, the curl never leaving his lips as he leaned forward and whispered into Spike's ear, "Don't you want to please me, Spike?"
"No," Spike breathed out and then bit through his lip trying to hold back another scream as Angelus let his weight fall entirely onto Spike's hips. “Holy fucking shit!” The holding back wasn’t successful and Spike threw his head back, clenching his teeth in pain as his pelvis shifted.
The silk was pressed to his face, tight across his eyes and wound tighter around his head, small hairs catching in the knot as Angelus tied it off. And then Angelus and his weight were gone. That was very nearly as painful and by the time the agony had subsided enough for Spike to think straight, the room was empty.
He opened his eyes, expecting darkness and instead saw the world in shades of red. The silk was sheer, coloring rather than occluding, lending a bloodstained tint to furniture and walls. The door was open, and through it Spike could see Angelus speaking fast and low to Dru. He frowned, straining to make out the words. No luck. Dru turned and left, and Angelus returned to the room carrying a notepad and a handful of his ever present charcoals and pencils.
"Fuck you," Spike said before Angelus had a chance to say a word. "I'm not gonna just sit here for one of your damned still lives."
"You'll lay there and do what I tell you." Angelus warned, setting the pad down on the dresser and walking back to the bed. He took one of the loose ends of the scarf and folded it over Spike's eyes, tucking it behind his ear.
Spike remained silent as the world turned a darker shade of red, blocking out even more of Angelus' movements. He heard the soft rustling of a chair over the worn carpet, Angelus sitting, the screws squeaking under his weight, the notepad opening, the barely audible scratch of pencil on paper.
"Very nice," Angelus murmured from the chair, the strokes of his pencil speeding up. For a moment it was the only sound and then he clicked his tongue muttering, "No, no, missing something."
He felt a tug at his shirt, followed by the cool steel of scissors, their metallic clicking and scraping sending shivers through his body with each cut. His shirt cut away, the stagnant air of the tiny room barely kissed over his chest as Angelus walked away.
He didn’t go far. The pad was barely picked up before it was put back down with a sigh and Angelus was back by the bed. This time the blades slid down the sides of Spike’s jeans, slicing through the thick denim with a dry chunking sound. They stopped at mid-thigh and the front flap was flipped forwards exposing his newly bruised flesh.
Hard fingers pressed into the purpling contusions and Spike could just make out Angelus’ face turned towards him, watching his reaction. He didn’t so much as twitch an eyelash as those callused fingertips dug and probed. Show you, he thought, enjoying his own pettiness and then…
“Fuck!” as the same fingers ran up his cock from base to tip, swirling there for a second before collecting him in a loose fist and starting to jerk him off.
Spike moaned, rocking his head from side to side on the pillow, fingers curling around the harsh woolen bindings. How many months had it been? Too many. His flesh responded with such alacrity that Spike was certain he could feel the blood draining from every other part of his body. In moments he was hard, aching, desperate in a way that, in his more depressed moods, he had feared he never would be again.
His hips tried to move, tried to thrust up into the waiting fist, and sharp pains stabbed through his pelvis. He hissed, partly in pain but mainly in frustration.
“Miss me?” Angelus’ question rancid with smug satisfaction hung in the air between them.
Spike didn’t answer, refusing to give Angelus the verbal satisfaction even if his body was being eloquent for him.
Then the hand was gone, and a cry of disappointment escaped before Spike could swallow it. His jeans - what was left of them - were being tugged down his legs and he was arching, though whether to help or hinder he really wasn’t sure. A pillow, slid under his hips, raising them and setting them singing. Knees being bent, propped open and more pain from muscles wasted through lack of use.
Posed and exposed, cock hard and proud. Damp. He could feel the wetness, smell the sharp scent of his own precome, his balls reacting to sensations they hadn’t felt in forever.
Now he was left alone, the perfect artist’s model. He could see it clearly, framed and hanging in the National gallery, still life of pissed-off horny vampire.
No sounds reached Spike's ears for what seemed an eternity, not the faintest trace of movement. Angelus was nothing if not a silent predator. And then it came. The sharp point, the slow steady pressure of the blade, trailing from ankle to hip. Spike watched through his bloody blindfold as Angelus waited for the little twinge that would signal he had reached the nerves that were still intact, the spots that would cause the most pain. Just as he would have painted with a brush, Angelus composed a study of red matching the silken scarf that concealed his every action from Spike's sight.
And then nothing.
Spike strained against the rope, thrashing his head first one way, then the other, trying to work the cloth from his head. A growl stopped him, and his gaze flew blindly to where he could now hear Angelus moving, shedding his clothes by the sounds of it. Soft thuds and the distinct rasp of a leather belt being drawn through loops. Sniffing delicately, Spike carefully tested the air and yes, there it was; rich, edged with copper and musk, easily discernible over the scent of his own blood.
“Feeling horny are we, sire?" Spike hissed. "Imagine Dru would suit you just as good, why don't you go shag her and leave me be?”
Spike tried again. “Fine. Not up for much in the way of playtime, but I’ll give it a go.” There was no point trying to dissuade Angelus if his mind was made up but Spike was damned if he wouldn’t try sparing himself a little punishment.
A dipping in the mattress told Spike that Angelus was now on the bed, but his senses had been deprived for too long. He couldn't make out which direction Angelus was coming from until he was lying beside him. Soft fingers traced over Spike's ear and he heard the soft rustling of silk against flesh as Angelus pulled the last length of material over Spike's eyes. He was blind now to all but the red of the material.
Laying with his eyes half open under the cloth, the sensation of staring at the sun through closed eyelids was all consuming. Every nerve in his body screamed in anticipation of the next touch; arms held high over head, still lifeless legs spread open exposing him to the vampire's lecherous stare, the pillow forcing his back into an unnatural arch, all waiting for Angelus to take his pleasure.
"Beautiful," Angelus whispered, fingers inching over shattered bones, working their way towards Spike's cock once again. "You will always have the one thing that Dru can't give me, won't you, William? You'll always have this for me."
Spike shuddered as Angelus grasped at his length, coaxing it back to hardness as he mumbled words of encouragement, meant only for his cock, not for Spike himself. Angelus spoke to it like a priest might speak to his god, full of reverence and worship, telling it of its own greatness and power. In that instant Spike knew that as helpless as he was, it was he who held all the power in this moment.
“Want me, don’t you,” he growled. “Need me, just like before.”
Angelus continued paying homage, now with lips and tongue across soft skin, tasting and cleansing. He offered Spike no more words; they were superfluous when the main object of his passion spoke the language of taction. His hands spread over Spike’s belly, wrapping around his waist, thumbs pressing and pushing at his ribs, finding bruises even though his eyelids were clenched tight as he focused only on his task. Murmuring his little prayers over Spike's cock, even as he took it deep into his throat, making long contained breath explode from Spike’s lungs and whistle into the air through his gritted teeth.
Spike knew what was coming, just hadn’t been able to bring himself to believe that Angelus really wanted it. So when Angelus straddled his hips once more, fingers digging deep into Spike’s sides and impaled himself on Spike’s shaft, all he could do was scream.
The wailing of his sightless victim only spurred Angelus on. As he steered his body over Spike's, pressing deep against his length on each down-stroke, Angelus lost himself in the sensation. He savored each cry from his lover as a sacrament, filling him mind and body. Each time Spike arched his back in protest of his ministrations Angelus would lean forward, the added pressure on his pelvis forcing more cries from Spike's lips.
Angelus rode him hard and fast, his whispers verging on deification with each thrust, paying no attention to his lover's needs only the gospel of lament that he forced through Spike's lips. This was about reclamation, Angelus acting out the only contrition open to him. He would never dare speak words of love or encouragement to Spike, but this act, this wine colored benediction served them both.
Pain wrecking any spark of thought that tried to work its way into his mind, Spike twisted ineffectually in his bonds, unstoppable moans spilling from his mouth like an offering of purest gold. Glimmers of white began to tinge his sight, the smallest movement sending him over the edge into oblivion as Angelus clenched his orgasm down on his body. Spike shook in response, toes instinctually constricting despite the pain it shot through his spine, his tormented body suffering the little death as he released, renewing the agony hidden behind the borrowed scarf.
Seeing the tears that streamed from beneath the blindfold, Angelus bent forward, licking up the salt that flowed freely now. Bittersweet they were, suffused with agony and ecstasy, an unholy balm to Angelus’ tongue. An unobtrusive keening accompanied the tears and, when Angelus caressed his ashen face, Spike began to shake.
Angelus frowned, perplexed by the situation. His boy was hurt, suffering for him as was his place, but in the aftermath of pleasure, Angelus considered it only fitting to find a means of soothing that pain long enough to pacify his muse. Slicing into his neck, he offered his blood, pressing the wound to Spike’s mouth and stroking his throat to encourage him to swallow.
Spike couldn't see the offering, but he could sense it, tasting the blood dripping onto his tongue like the sweetest communion, he swallowed, gulping the liquor down eagerly, the excess spilling onto the pillows and staining them with ruby drops.
Completely satisfied Angelus pulled away, leaving Spike bound and near to gagging on the last mouthful of his sacrament of blood. He reached up and gently pulled away the scarf so that once again Spike could see his form, a lust tinted vision, the expression of devout content spreading over his lover's face.
Again the bed dipped and Spike was alone, outstretched arms there only for Angelus' worship. His muscles screamed in agony still but the healing power of still living blood was starting to work its magic. He could feel the bones knitting, flesh that had lain dormant so long beginning to rebuild. And he understood the gift for what it was - Angelus' blessing. Eyes falling gently closed, he waited for much needed sleep to join him.
Pacing to the far side of the room, Angelus picked the notebook and, studying his subject from every angle, continued his masterpiece. As he worked, he took special care outlining the form of Spike's half wilted erection, the awkward bend of his hips, the hollows of his pelvis that were still not fully healed, crimson rivers leading to pools of black blood, under unmarred skin. This was beauty at its height, and Angelus meant to capture it for all time.