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They know each other.
They know each other better than anyone else does. Maybe better than anyone else can. They know ins and outs and secrets. They know every betrayal. They know all the broken corners where a soul can blister away, and the wild agony that comes after.
They know all these things. That doesn't mean they like each other very much.
'Hate' is a far more accurate sentiment most days. But Angel has long since figured out that hate can get you pretty far.
"Spike," Angel hisses, wishing he could spare a hand to cover Spike's stubborn mouth. "Stop. Talking."
Because Spike doesn't shut up. Ever. He doesn't do anything without running his mouth. Even fuck.
Especially fuck.
"All I'm saying," Spike insists, squirming beneath Angel's weight, twisting under Angel's pinning hands in a way that has to be deliberate, "is it's hardly fair, is it?"
Angel tightens his grip on Spike's wrists and utters a groan that's equal parts exasperated and eager. Thank god they're both already naked.
"I'm going to knock you out," Angel growls, and his hips stutter forward in search of friction. "I'm going to knock you out and fuck you while you're unconscious if you don't shut up."
"Kinky," Spike smirks, and then he wriggles, just so, and Angel curses and buries his face against Spike's throat. "But you know what'd be kinkier?" Spike presses. "Letting me top for once."
And Angel knows—he knows—Spike's not going to back down for any argument he might put into words. It's not words Spike wants. But he also doesn't want a turn on top. Not really. It's one of those things Angel just knows, the way he instinctively knows the quickest ways to piss Spike off, or the fastest way to turn him on.
"No," Angel snarls, and Spike shivers beneath him.
Whatever retort Spike might be about to offer, it strangles into a greedy gasp when Angel bites down on the pale line of his collarbone. He doesn't break the skin, though he's tempted.
"No," Angel repeats, but this time he sounds smug. He slips his body between Spike's legs, the battle won in the span of a heartbeat that neither of them possesses. Spike stutters a rough sound that might be a gasp, might be a laugh. Either way it sounds like surrender.
"How do you want it?" Angel murmurs against Spike's throat.
This time the sound is definitely a laugh.
"You know bloody well how I want it," Spike purrs.
He's right. Of course Angel knows. That's not why he's asking, though.
"Say it," he insists, biting Spike's earlobe.
For a moment, he thinks Spike is going to be difficult. The pause lingers too long, starts to sound stubborn instead of expectant. Which, okay. Fine. Spike can be stubborn, Angel can work with that. He knows Spike. He knows how to make him beg.
But just before the pause crosses the line into deliberate standoff, Spike falls still beneath him.
"Fuck me, Angel."
"Say please."
"Fuck you."
Angel laughs and releases one of Spike's wrists. He shifts so he can look Spike in the eye as he positions himself, and keeps looking as he thrusts quickly, roughly in.
Spike never wants it gentle. Not from Angel, anyway. He never wants Angel's fingers first, or his tongue. He never holds still to be opened carefully up, though Angel has held him down and pressed the issue once or twice.
But not this time. This time Angel provides exactly what Spike is after. An unforgiving rhythm, rough pace filling Spike deep and deeper with every hard thrust.
Spike's eyes fall shut, and he catches his lower lip between his teeth. His face is tight with pleasure, unselfconscious and unguarded, and Angel takes in the sight with greedy eyes.
It's becoming difficult to focus. Physical pleasure surges sharply beneath Angel's skin, the mounting edge of orgasm curling low in his gut.
His thrusts speed, and he slips a hand between their bodies, curling his fingers around the firm length of Spike's cock. Angel strokes quick and rough, determined to bring Spike off before he reaches the edge himself. If Angel comes first, there's a good chance Spike will never let him live it down.
Spike's orgasm comes with a sharp growl that Angel swallows in a kiss. There's nothing romantic in the gesture. This is territory, it's vicious claim, and Angel bites at Spike's lower lip. He doesn't mean to draw blood, but it's not quite an accident, either.
Angel's hips stutter, rhythm faltering. Once, twice, again, uneven and so close he can taste it—
He doesn't say Spike's name when he comes. He doesn't say anyone else's name either, which is a small miracle. He comes silently, his fingers digging bruises into Spike's hips.
The bruises will fade in less than an hour. Spike will have left Angel's room long before then.
But for the moment, Spike is here. And he's quiet—maybe the only time Spike is ever quiet—and Angel lets himself fall into a calm that's not quite contentment.
Whatever this is, it has to be enough.