Work Text:
They fucked right there on the floor among the men they had just slaughtered. There was no calculation, no finesse in their movements. Nothing but the sound of panting and skin against skin resounded through the open hall, mingling in Spikes’ ears with the ringing aftershock of bullets flying toward him at point blank range.
‘This isn't love’ Spike thinks to himself, and he's right. This is different. Not like a young summer fling or a rich girl looking to disappoint her parents. Not like Julia. Spike and Vicious have an understanding- they are two pieces of the same puzzle, fitting together perfectly in every imaginable way. Sometimes he thinks they were both born half a person so they could one day find each other and be whole again.
‘It’s still not love’ Spike thinks, because he can feel the blood on the floor beneath him, and it sure as hell ain't his.
Spike had never really payed mind to whom he shared a bed with. Though it bit him in the ass at times, a good lay is a good lay, and he's not the kind of man to refuse a night of pleasure when he's spent so many nights in pain. But this seems different. This time it's not a girl at the bar or a rich guy cruising the strip. Its Vicious. His partner. A mirror image of himself, but darker somehow. Like the forty five in the holster hanging on the bedpost, vicious is cold, demanding. More than that. He's sharp and quick like the blade he wields in his left hand. Fluid like the Krav Maga he learned all those years ago on mars.
Spike wakes up at four in the morning when there's only enough light to cast the room in an offset grayscale. Black and white like an old movie. Instead of a blushing blonde or a James Dean lookalike its Vicious, already awake, shirtless in the kitchen sharpening his sword. He has this tendency to dwarf every room he stands in, not only due to his height but his demeanor, so the small hotel room kitchen is reduced considerably. His sword catches the scarce light for a moment, and the glittering reminds Spike of...somewhere else for a moment. He doesn't realize that Vicious is staring back at him until he sheathed his sword, leaving it hanging idly on the back of a dining chair as if it was something trivial.
Vicious walked toward the bed, brought spikes face between his thumb and index finger, and their mouths met with an intensity that took his breath away. It reminded Spike of the first time they killed together. All it took was half a clip from Spike and a careful sweep of Vicious’s sword and they had brought down 10 men. It had been so easy for him. As easy as taking a breath. Until that breath was forced out of him, Vicious slamming him up against the ally wall. He had kissed him for the first time that night, and a suffocating, drowning feeling filled Spike that hasn't quite left him.
When they kissed in the early morning light it was no different. Vicious took Spike by the wrists, confining them above the headboard with his left hand while reaching down Spikes underwear with the right. Spike lazily followed the physical commands, groaning against Vicious’s agile touch. Spikes wrists bit into the worn wooden headboard, and Vicious let go not for his sake but for the sake of taking his own pants off. He roughly hooked Spikes’ legs over his scarred shoulders, thrusting inside him like it was second nature. Spike let out a whine, reaching back for the headboard as leverage. He yelled out for Vicious as he was being fucked, and Vicious said nothing back. He just kissed him. Spike kissed back with a animalistic need, then pulled away, screaming Vicious’s name one more time for good measure as they came damn near unanimously.