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“You’re trembling.”
That was true, but that didn’t mean Spike wouldn’t deny it and fight like hell over it.
He glared up at the man above him, the moonlight through the stained glass illuminating that pretty, pale face and making him look borderline angelic. He couldn’t stand it. “Shut the hell up..”
Vicious grinned at the low, shaky growl that was Spike’s voice. He just couldn’t help himself now that he had the other man right where he wanted him—pinned to the ground and panting with exertion.
“You were shaking less when I had my blade to your chest.” The sweaty, embarrassed flush of Spike’s face at that sentence was worth every ounce of effort it had taken to get to this moment. “What are you so afraid of, Spike?”
“Not you.” The words were still unsteady and weak, but they weren’t a lie. Spike wasn’t afraid of Vicious—at least, he wasn’t afraid of Vicious killing him. He knew how Vicious looked when he wanted to kill, and it wasn’t this. No, no, this was an expression of Vicious’s he was even more familiar with.
Every movement, every twitch or shift of Spike’s body beneath him was just making Vicious more and more wound up, his eyes dark and predatory—hungry. “I know.” He whispered after a good few moments of silence, pressing his hand down on a fresh gunshot wound and digging his thumb in, sighing at the strangled, broken shout it earned him.
Spike’s eyes squeezed shut, teeth grinding as he felt the warmth of his own blood seep through his shirt. He wasn’t afraid of Vicious killing him. He was afraid of what was happening right here, right now—this intimate, twisted dance of power and control that was much more terrifying than a sword sinking into his chest.
He didn’t dare to move, not even when Vicious leaned down, pressing his nose against Spike’s neck, breathing in his scent, the scent of blood, sweat, and fear.
The hand on the gunshot wound began to move in slow circles, the pain pulsing in time with his racing heart. He felt Vicious’s other hand sneak under his shirt, his fingers tracing the scars that marred Spike’s torso—each one a story, a battle won or lost, a memory that stung as much as the pressure on his wound.
“You’re afraid,” He murmured slowly, rubbing a thumb over one of Spike’s nipples. “because you know you want this.”
Spike’s eyes flew open, the brown orbs flashing with a mix of anger and barely-concealed shame. He clenched his fists in the fabric of Vicious’s shirt, the fabric straining against his grip. “You don’t know shit.” he hissed, trying to ignore the way his body responded to the touch.
“I can feel you throbbing.” Vicious was really going in for the kill now, licking a wet stripe up from Spike’s collarbone to his cheek and lapping up the blood from the cut he’d put there. “You can lie to me, Spike, but your body is always honest.”
Yes, Spike was hard, painfully so. He’d never been able to control his body’s reaction to danger, and Vicious had always been the most dangerous thing in his life—his body had learned early on to crave the adrenaline rush. And now, with the other man’s hand still playing with his wound, it was a miracle Spike hadn’t came yet. “You’re.. you’re fucking sick…” His voice came out as a breathy groan, eyes squeezing shut as he started to give in.
Vicious hummed in agreement, pressing his thumb into the bullet hole again to make Spike groan in pain. “And it’s your fault.” He whispered, sickly-sweet with twisted affection—he took his chance, slipping his tongue inside Spike’s mouth and silencing his groans of pain with a messy kiss.
It was sloppy and visceral—teeth clicking, noses pressed uncomfortably together—but it was exactly what they both needed.
Vicious’s hand left the warm, sticky mess of Spike’s wound, and within moments, he was tearing the other man’s shirt open. Buttons flew everywhere, clinking and clattering against the floor like tiny little marbles. The cool night air kissed his skin, sending shivers down Spike’s spine, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Vicious’s touch—those long, delicate fingers sliding ticklishly up and down his chest and belly.
Spike’s breaths grew ragged, his chest heaving with each shallow inhale. He could feel Vicious’s tongue tangling with his own, making him taste the coppery flavor of his own blood. It took Vicious all of five seconds to bury his hand in Spike’s pants and fish his cock out with the practiced ease only a lover could provide.
“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” With every minute that passed, Vicious’s voice—along with the rest of him—grew more and more deranged, unstable. “I want to rip you to shreds, Spike. I want to eat your heart—your very essence, and keep you inside me forever.”
It wasn’t dirty talk, it wasn’t sexy or erotic in any way, and yet Spike felt himself throb and twitch violently in Vicious’s firm grasp. “That’s- you’re d-disgusting..” There wasn’t much of a point in pretending he hated it anymore, but it was such a hard mental block to overcome.
Vicious just panted in response, his heavy breaths echoing throughout the cathedral as he stared down at Spike—half-naked and covered in his own blood with his cock standing proud and needy between his thighs. Ethereal. The picture of beauty.
He would never let Spike slip away again.
With quick, eager hands, Vicious unbuttoned and tugged his own pants down, kicking them off haphazardly once they were around his ankles. “I caught you.” He whispered, eyes wide and obsessive—manic. “I was always going to catch you.”
Spike felt, rather than saw, the way Vicious straddled him and rolled his hips down, two, three times—then sank onto his cock, blazing-hot, velvety wetness surrounding him. God.
He threw his head back with a shout, eyes still shut tight, trying to block out the sight of the moonlit cathedral and the twisted, fallen angel that was Vicious above him. He didn’t need to see to feel the man’s weight, the way he took him in one smooth, greedy motion, his body tight and hungry. It was like being swallowed whole by something much bigger than himself, something that knew him all too well.
“Open your eyes.” The tone of Vicious’s voice left no room for argument, it was a command—and Spike was so, so fucking weak. He slowly let his eyelids flutter open, nearly coming just from the view. Vicious on top of him, split open on his cock and grinning like a madman.
Their eyes met, and Spike swore he could see every star in the universe in those silvery pools. They sparkled with a hungry delight that sent a thrill of terror through him, making his cock pulse. “Look at me when I’m fucking you.” Vicious’s voice was low, a silky trill that vibrated through Spike’s very soul. For just a moment, he wanted to argue that he was the one doing the fucking here, but… He wasn’t sure he really was.
Vicious’s hips began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that made Spike’s eyes roll back in his head. It was like every nerve in his body was on fire—like Vicious was fucking his soul as much as his body. The throbbing pain of his injuries was forgotten, replaced by the white-hot pleasure of their union.
He cast a glance down, just out of habit, and felt a shaky moan tear itself from his throat at the sight of that soft, pink pussy wrapped around his cock—a sight he’d been deprived of for years now.
The cathedral walls seemed to close in around them, the only sounds their ragged breaths and the slick, wet sounds of flesh slapping together. The world outside didn’t matter anymore—there was only this moment, this fucked-up, violent declaration of love. “Vicious—fuck..” Spike was slurring his words, drunk on a heady mix of pleasure and blood loss. His pride, his dignity.. It had all melted away, leaving him weak and desperate. Just how Vicious liked it.
In a way, this was their wedding, right? Not how Vicious had ever imagined it, but he did quite like the idea of Spike being his beautiful, blood-soaked bride. When he noticed Spike’s eyes starting to go hazy and unfocused, he frowned and reached down to roughly grip the other man’s chin, forcefully snapping him out of his daze. “Pay attention.” He murmured, voice dangerously steady and soft.
Spike couldn’t refuse anything right now, even if he’d wanted to. He nodded limply, trying his very best to stay alert and focus on Vicious, choking out soft little moans and gasps with every languid, measured grind of the other man’s hips—he wanted to say something, anything, but it was like the words had been stolen from his mouth. Vicious was stripping him of his sanity, turning him into a feral animal in heat.
“You remember this,” The truth, raw and shameful. “you remember how things were.” Vicious sounded almost hurt, and that shouldn’t have made Spike feel a sharp, violent stab of guilt, but it did. He remembered just fine, the deep, unspoken relationship between them—waking up in the middle of the night to find Vicious had slipped into bed with him, or stumbling into dirty alleyways to make out like horny teens…
Somewhere deep in his heart, Spike knew he missed those days. If he had a chance to go back, to do things differently, he’d take it in a heartbeat. But that wasn’t how the world worked, so here he was. “I.. uugh…” He wasn’t even sure what he was trying to say, his chest heaving with each painful breath he took.
He dimly realized that Vicious was kissing him again—it felt like he was breathing life back into his body, somehow, keeping him conscious and present for the whole event. “You thought you were better than me.” Vicious sunk his fingers into that messy mop of green hair, almost affectionate in spite of his bitter voice. “You still do, don’t you?”
Spike didn’t have an answer for him. He didn’t think he could formulate one if he tried.
“..You left—not me.”
It slipped from his mouth without thinking, shaky and indignant. The words seemed to make Vicious freeze in place, face twisting with the most emotion that Spike had seen on him in years. What emotion, he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t seem pleasant.
After a few moments of just staring at him silently, Vicious pressed a hand down over his mouth firmly and started to bounce his hips faster, rougher. “Don’t talk.” He practically hissed, watching the way Spike’s eyes went wide, then half-lidded and hazy. If Vicious were in a better mood, he probably would’ve smiled at the sight, but right now it just pissed him off.
He tried to focus purely on the pleasure, squeezing his eyes shut and paying close attention to the feeling of Spike’s cock twitching and throbbing pitifully inside him, but it all felt dull and empty now—like he was riding a lifeless piece of plastic.
Still, Vicious kept going, panting harshly and rolling his hips skillfully like a cheap whore. Just how Spike had always liked it. He gritted his teeth, bracing both his hands on the other man’s shoulders and using the new leverage to slam himself down on his cock—hard. It only took a few more moments after that until Vicious heard a broken, shuddering groan and felt Spike’s cum pour into him like a faucet. He must have been so pent up.
With tired, miserable eyes, Vicious lifted his head to look at Spike. And what a sight he was—if Vicious thought he’d looked good before, this was an entirely new level of beauty. And yet, it didn’t make him feel any better at all, Spike’s words from earlier ringing in his ears—you left.
It made him feel sick, his insides burning in a way that had nothing to do with his arousal. Slowly, he lifted himself up off Spike’s lap, watching the evidence of this moment drip down onto the cold, hard floor.
Spike was passed out—from the blood loss, or just pure exhaustion, Vicious wasn’t sure. He didn’t care either way, because he had an important decision to make. Reaching up to press a hand against his own chest, feeling the small, hard object in one of the pockets of his coat.
It was a bad idea. It was wrong, and he knew it, but ‘wrong’ had never stopped him before.
…
He shakily slipped the syringe into Spike’s neck, pressing down on the plunger after just a moment of hesitation.
He would never let Spike slip away again.