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these violent delights

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“I have the perfect collar for this,” Spike announces, rising from his inelegant sprawl on the couch and repairing to his room with the kind of excitement that Jet has come to understand is a warning.

Jet looks to Faye, who shrugs. “I was just gonna say I won’t be wearing any latex, but I’m guessing I won’t be the dressed-up one in this situation,” she says.

“We could still go for the arsonist acrobat,” Jet says, without much hope. “I haven’t been to the circus since I was a kid.”

“Why,” Spike says, returning with his shirt unbuttoned obscenely, unnecessarily low, “would we go to the circus,” he sits heavily down next to Faye on the couch, “when that’s all the way over on Io and we’re already here on Europa,” he hands a black leather collar to Faye and turns his back to her, shaking his hair forward and asking, “buckle me in, would you?”

“Aren’t you the one supposed to be taking orders in this situation?” Faye asks, but takes the collar and loops it around Spike’s neck, pulling the ends together sharply enough that it drags Spike’s head up a couple inches and makes him let out a little gasp.

And,” Spike continues, slightly breathless, “the target is known to frequent a club where I have contacts-”

“Friends you fuck,” Faye corrects, buckling the collar over the top bump of his spine about one notch past comfort if the way the leather digs into Spike’s throat is any indication.

“Friends I fuck,” Spike agrees, like this only furthers his point. He shifts back around to face them, then gives Faye respectful bedroom eyes, bowing his head to look up at her through his eyelashes. “Thank you, Mistress,” he says, also giving her bedroom voice.

“Oh, you’re great at this,” Faye says, surprised.

“I am an excellent pet,” Spike says, sounding both proud of himself and mildly insulted that she would ever expect differently. He takes off his jacket, then finishes unbuttoning his shirt and discards it onto the couch behind him, leaving him in trousers and the collar, its D-ring gleaming at the center. “Jet, what do you think?”

“I think,” Jet says, looking for a proper response to that and coming up blank, “that I’m sure you are. A good pet.”

“Thank you,” Spike says, putting a hand to his bare chest like he’s genuinely honored. He’s beginning to go very, very slightly pink in his cheeks. “I’m a little out of practice.”

“I’m sure it’s just like riding a bicycle,” Jet says.

“I’m sure it’s just like riding something,” Faye says. She and Spike high-five.

Jet gives Spike a long look over, for tactical reasons. “You’re not going to be able to hide any weapons with that outfit.”

“You two can carry the weapons, let’s get going,” Spike says, standing up. “Hey, do either of you have a leash handy?”

-

There was a time when Jet might have thought to himself: I don’t know how I get myself into these situations. But he knows now, easily.

The answer is always Spike.

Spike’s sticking close behind him, which is easy enough with the handle of his leash wrapped around Jet’s wrist. Well, Ein’s leash. There’s plenty of slack in the chain with Spike near enough for Jet to feel the heat of him, and Jet can feel it all right with Spike hovering at his back. Though Jet’s ostensibly leading it’s Spike that guides them, his hand light on Jet’s shoulder, directing them through the curving halls and dark-cornered rooms, his voice soft as he gives Jet the rundown of the place.

They’ve been in the club for five minutes and already lost Faye, or more accurately have been ditched by Faye, who said she was going to take a look around then headed straight for the slightly butch redhead that had been eyeing her since they walked in. Whatever. As long as she’s not fucking in the engine room Jet’s fine with it. Though Jet did appreciate having her as a buffer between himself and Spike’s radioactively sexual energy, which he can usually handle in normal circumstances, when Spike has a shirt on.

Jet and Spike have a good thing going. It’s not easy to find a person you trust enough to work with in this industry (or any industry, in Jet’s experience), let alone someone you like enough to live with. Jet’s not a reckless person. Well, he’s as not-reckless as anyone could be who chooses to be a cowboy for a living.

The point is he’s not going to screw up the best thing he has just because he’s got a crush.

It’s just easier to do that when Spike has on all of his clothes.

“Spike Spiegel,” says someone to their left. The club isn’t crowded, not this early, but it still takes Jet a moment to find the person that’s spoken. The scene becomes clearer as a magnificently tall woman rises (and rises) from the low red velvet banquette along the wall and approaches, her hips swaying in a low-cut black gown atop vertiginous heels. “I have missed your pretty face,” she says, giving Spike a long look over like she’s missed more than that.

“Mistress Amara,” Spike says, taking her proffered hand and pressing a kiss to her silk-gloved knuckles. “It’s been too long.”

Of course Spike’s fucked people since he and Jet have been partners. Not often, sure, but he’s had about as many assignations as Jet’s allowed himself, and Jet’s always been scrupulously polite about it, because Spike can do what he wants.

But he doesn’t have to be polite now. Jet raises his fist and curls it demonstratively, wrapping another loop of chain around it, making Spike sway in closer to him. “Madam,” he says. She’s not his goddamn mistress.

“My apologies,” she says to Jet, “I meant no disrespect. You have a fine pet, here. Has he been yours for very long?”

“Yes, for quite some time now,” Jet tells her. He can feel Spike’s eyes on him. The chain in his hand feels very heavy. Spike touches the small of his back, drawing his attention; when Jet lets himself look at him, Spike raises an eyebrow and nods toward the opposite side of the room, where Faye’s waving at them from where she’s sitting half on the redhead’s lap. “Excuse us,” Jet says, nodding at Amara, who steps back while still looking between them with interest.

He’s so used to following Spike into whatever insane situation that it takes him a second to remember he’s leading here. Spike’s coquettish little farewell wave at Amara reminds him, though, and one light tug on the leash gets them both on their way over to Faye.

How long have I been yours?” Spike says, bumping into him in a way that feels deliberate, practically whispering in his ear. “I just want to get our stories straight.”

Jet makes an abrupt detour to order the strongest thing the bartender’s got. “Behave yourself,” he tells Spike and also himself in the mirror behind the bar.

“Make me,” Spike says. The bartender, without pausing pouring their drinks, gives Jet an unimpressed look, like if he won’t get Spike in line, she will. Spike’s posture is insouciant, challenging, and entirely too pleased with himself. He leans against the brass rail bordering the bar, on display, a slim, muscled offering to whomever might wish to take it.

The lord is testing Jet. Fate is testing Jet, his own resolve is testing Jet, but nothing is testing Jet so much as Spike fucking Spiegel.

He doesn’t have any experience with this type of thing, but it’s not so much improvisation that guides him as sheer instinct. He curls a hand around Spike’s hip, guiding him to stand up straighter, facing Jet instead of angled out to half the bar like he’s advertising goods for sale. The chain wrapped around his knuckles drags over Spike’s bare skin as he pulls him in, then trails a finger up until he can loop it into the D-ring of the collar.

He does it slowly though Spike offers no resistance, just follows the pull until they’re close enough that a deep exhale would have their lips touch, Spike’s head tilted up to look him in the eye. Spike’s nipples are hard though there’s no chill in the air, his eyes dark, pupils dilated. “Be,” Jet says, “good.”

“You ever loan him out?” the bartender asks, sliding their drinks and the bill over.

“No,” Jet says, not looking at her.

“I’ll be good,” Spike says, his voice small, breathless. He never loosened the collar; Jet can see the outline it’s left in his skin where Jet’s grip on the ring has pulled it away from his throat. He’s flushed like Jet’s never seen him. “Please.”

Jet exhales and lets him go, so abruptly that Spike rocks back on his heels a little. It was either that or kiss him, which he probably would have gotten away with, if kissing Spike was something Jet ever wanted to just get away with. He takes their drinks from the bar and they head again for Faye, whose jaw has dropped looking at them. Spike has gone very quiet.

“Hey,” Faye says too loudly when they arrive. “What’s going on with you guys? Weird stuff?”

“Just the usual,” Jet lies. He sits next to her.

Spike sits at his feet on the plush rug, curling up close and looking up at Jet expectantly as if this is indeed all very typical of them. Jet hands him his drink and they stare at each other for too long.

“Yeah, totally,” Faye says. “That’s how you two always are for sure.”

The first sip of his drink hits Jet like a sack of rocks to the face. He tries not to visibly flinch as the blue liquid freezes his back teeth, an intense point of sensation only then matched by Spike tugging at the leash, guiding Jet’s hand over to Spike’s head where it’s leaning against Jet’s knee. His fingers automatically push into Spike’s hair, and Spike arches up into the touch, gazing at Jet as he takes an easy swallow of his drink.

Spike wants to be petted. Spike wants to be petted, so Jet obliges him, stroking his hair until Spike’s shoulders drop, the tension going out of him. His eyes go half-mast, his body settling heavy against Jet’s leg.

“I love how normal this is,” Faye says.

“It’s your first time at a club like this, right?” the redhead says, drawing Faye closer to her. “You get used to it.” She reaches an arm over, and Jet shakes her hand, hoping that’s correct. He’s not kissing anyone’s knuckles. “I’m Eve. Faye says you all work together?” She smiles a hello at Spike, who already looks pleasure-drugged. Not great that Jet knows how that looks on him now. That is not going to be a forgettable thing, no matter how hard Jet tries.

“We do,” Jet says. Spike’s hair is so soft.

“At the circus,” Faye says, giving Jet a significant look. It only just manages to sound like she’s not delivering brand new information.

“But not the one on Io,” says Eve. She looks amused about it. They’re really all going to have to start getting their stories straight before going out like this.

“A different one,” Faye confirms, nodding.

Jet takes advantage of the fact that he can pull off a stoic vibe and lets Faye handle the conversation. Jet’s not a self-indulgent person, generally; there aren’t a lot of opportunities for that with the life he lives anyhow. But he’s playing a part now, which means he can pretend he is. He cards his fingers through Spike’s hair, lets himself explore further. Brushes his fingertips over Spike’s temple, the rise of his cheek, his jaw, the soft skin of his throat flushed with heat.

“I’ve seen a few circus people here recently, interesting crowd,” Eve comments. “They usually come late in the evening from Io. I’ll introduce you if any of the ones I’ve talked to show up. What is it you all do in the circus?”

“Lion tamer,” Jet says, thinking fast. Too fast. Lion tamer?

“Accountant,” Spike says faintly. He looks up and catches Jet staring at him.

“Also an accountant.” Faye puts her hand on Eve’s thigh as if it might distract her from the fact that their collective undercover game could use some work. It seems to be pretty effective, given how Eve leans in and kisses her.

Spike’s hand tightens around Jet’s ankle and he sits up a little straighter.

It’s easy to see how they missed the target’s entrance: the guy is good-looking but in an unassuming way, the type of fellow that neighbors would describe as a nice guy who mostly kept to himself, and they never would have guessed that he has a taste for carving up his dates. Which he does. There’s a knife in the holster at his hip. His name is Howard.

“Let’s go say hello,” Spike says, catching Jet’s hand and kissing his fingertips. He moves to stand, leaving Jet no choice but to follow him up. “Keep an eye out, would you Faye?” He taps her shoulder, and her eyes widen when she sees the guy. They have a vague plan, anyway: get Mr. Slice & Dice alone in a private room, subdue him, take him out the back entrance. Faye’s meant to check in on them after twenty minutes.

Jet’s reasonably sure this is going to work. If it doesn’t, they can always resort to violence.

“I’ll handle the proposition, just follow my lead,” Spike says, pretty ironically for someone on a literal leash.

Suddenly the plan seems insane. “What if we’re not his type?” Jet hisses.

“We’re everyone’s type,” Spike says. He turns so quickly that Jet could either knock him over or grab hold of him; he does the latter automatically, and ends up with his arms full of Spike, all warm bare skin and far too much sincerity for the situation, far more than Jet can handle. “Don’t worry, baby.”

Howard’s leaning against the bar, scanning the crowd. His eyes alight on them and stay there, looking both of them over in a way that’s not so much erotically assessing as it is strangely clinical, like a coroner before an autopsy.

“Nice knife,” Spike says to him, seeming unfazed about it all.

“Thanks,” says Howard. “You like to be cut?”

“Sure,” Spike says. He arches up and kisses Jet’s cheek, lips brushing skin and metal. “This one’s too afraid to do it to me though. How about you come watch us for a bit, then we’ll see what that pretty blade can do?”

“Okay.” Howard looks up at Jet as Spike leads them to the back. “You’ve really never cut him? He’d scar so well.”

Sometimes Jet does not like this job. “No scars tonight,” he says, knowing it’s futile to tell a serial killer to take it easy but giving it a try anyway. He’s well-armed himself, and has a good six inches and fifty pounds on his guy. His heart is still pounding. If this guy does anything to Spike Jet’s just gonna straight up kill him.

“Of course,” Howard says, in the distant tone of someone who genuinely does not care what they’re agreeing with.

There aren’t too many people in the hallway. Jet could take him down right here.

“This one’ll do,” Spike says, leading them into a red-walled room with a round bed, armchair, and single small table.

“Who’s the one in charge here?” Howard asks, looking at both of them.

Jet’s had just about enough of people judging his skill as a Dom, or whatever it is he’s doing. Pet owner. BDSM boyfriend guy. Partner in sexy confusion. “He’s bossy,” he says shortly.

There’s a moment where Jet could just grab Howard and disarm him easily enough: his back is turned as he moves to take the armchair, and his hand for the moment is not on the hilt of his knife where it’s previously been involved in the act of creepy caressing. “He just likes to hear me beg,” Spike says. Jet’s head whips toward him, distracted by his words, then distracted anew and catastrophically by the way he’s crawled onto the bed, up on his knees with the leash dangling where Jet let it drop while he focused on doing what they came here to do. Well, what Jet came here to do, anyway. Spike’s motives are increasingly unclear.

“Go on then,” Jet chokes out like he’s the one collared tight.

Spike looks at him over his shoulder, acres of bare skin tinted soft gold in the room’s dim light, every muscle in his back moving as he grins at Jet. He rests on his heels casually, like he could do this all day, sit there on his knees on a bed happy to be looked at. They need to take this guy in, need to be on alert, so Jet grabs the leash and pulls back, forcing Spike to arch a little, keeping him on display and facing Howard in case he tries anything. There’s a look on Howard’s face that Jet regrets to recognize as bloodthirsty, hunger balanced on the edge of a blade, trembling and ready to drip over red onto the ground.

“I want you to do whatever you want with me,” Spike says. He keeps his eyes on Jet, staying in the stress position as if he’s been ordered to, the shallow dip of his spine a perfect curve for Jet to drag his knuckles down until goosebumps spring up. “Fuck me as hard as you want, just use me to get off. Hold me down until my wrists bruise up, keep me pinned no matter how hard I thrash. You know I’m yours, I’ve been yours. Mark me up so everyone can see that I’m your property. I want your teeth, your fists, your cock. I know you wanna ruin me, don’t hold back.”

One of them has certainly been ruined this evening, and it’s not Spike. Jet’s conception of himself as a guy who likes normal sex and is pretty easy to please has fractured into broken glass, a shattering of mirrored pieces around him reflecting back a person who wants to give Spike all of that and more, who wants to sink his teeth into Spike’s throat and bite down until there’s no question he’s been claimed.

“Want me to carve your name in him?” Howard asks Jet. He stands up, and Jet realizes, with some surprise, that he’s never had to fight anyone while he had an erection before. Just seems odd that a situation like that has never come up. Haha, come up.

“We can both do it, let me hold the knife,” Jet says, taking a step toward him, somehow retaining the naive hope that they can get this all done bloodlessly.

“No,” says Howard warily, frowning at them now, his hand gripping the knife more tightly.

Spike sighs like this is an offense second in severity only to Howard interrupting his dirty talk. “Back to work, I guess,” he says, and then flings his leash out, the heavy chain smacking Howard in the chest, the leather handle catching him on the chin.

“What the fuck,” Howard says, but his instinctive wild slashing is laughably ineffective in the face of Jet’s expertly aimed punch to the face and Spike rolling off the bed, then pulling off an impressively balletic move that ends with his own leash around Howard’s neck, choking him out. Howard flails around and drops the knife, but Jet still clocks him in the jaw with the back of his closed fist to speed things along, so it takes even less time for Spike to choke him unconscious.

“I’ve really missed wearing a leash,” Spike says wistfully, lowering Howard to the ground with chain marks around his neck. “Hey, free knife.” He picks up Howard’s knife, then unhooks his belt holster while he’s at it and takes that too.

Jet still has additional questions regarding most of what just happened, but a clatter’s arisen in the hall, a combination of sounds involving mild shrieking and what sounds like someone being thrown against a wall, then also maybe running on a wall (?). “How long do you think we have to stay in here to avoid that?” Jet asks.

“And miss the fun?” Spike asks. He grins at Jet, amped up as always by a successful capture, and nudges Howard’s lolling body forward for Jet to catch. “You carry him out, I’ll check up on Faye and see what’s going on in the hall.”

Jet gives him a minute, borrowing some rope from the frightening selection of sex paraphernalia in the side table drawers and using it to tie up Howard’s wrists and ankles. He wonders if Spike likes to be tied up. Someone out in the hall is slammed so hard into the door that it rattles in its frame. Jet gives the whole situation another minute.

When he emerges from the room with Howard slung over his shoulder, it’s to see boot prints on the walls and ceiling, sequins on the floor, and Spike, Faye, and also Eve restraining an extremely pissed off woman in a sparkly black bodysuit. There are a selection of burned spots on the hall carpet.

“Guess what!” Faye says, “We got the arsonist acrobat too!”

“I feel like you guys aren’t circus accountants,” says Eve. The arsonist acrobat snaps her teeth in Eve’s face, making her duck back, and prompting Spike to take off his leash and patiently choke out the acrobat as well.

“This all went pretty well,” Jet says, pleasantly surprised for once.

“I had a great time,” says Spike, then something catches his eye on the floor. “Hey, free matches!”

-

The two bounties add up, even split three ways. “I’ve never had this much money in my life,” Faye says, back on the ship the next afternoon after she’s returned from presumably fucking Eve and probably sleeping very little based on her giddy over-caffeinated energy.

“Well,” says Spike. “You’re only two years old. In a way.”

Jet feels reasonably well-rested after a solid ten hours passed out in his room. Spike still looks a little red around the throat from the collar digging in, but at least he’s dressed again, although his shirt really just frames the slim line of bruising below his pulse. Jet looks away.

“I’m gonna go buy stuff,” Faye announces, ignoring Spike. “Don’t know what. Things for sure. See you later.” She stuffs a wad of bills into her shorts and leaves.

“How will you be celebrating our success?” Spike asks Jet. “I’m thinking wanton debauchery. Overindulgence in liquor and other substances. You have any other ideas?” Laid out on his back on the couch, one knee bent up with his other leg stretched out and one too many buttons undone, Spike already looks wantonly debauched. Jet leans against the opposite armrest and considers reaching over and pushing Spike’s thighs further apart.

“I’m gonna just save it for a rainy day,” Jet says. His blood thrums in his veins like they’re back in the red-walled room, with death in an armchair and Spike splayed out like an offering to it.

“Really? There’s nothing you want right now?” The look in Spike’s eyes is a challenge.

Jet’s been responsible. He’s been patient, he’s been good. He can only handle so much. If he still had that leash in his hand he’d drag Spike up by it and put him right where Jet wants him.

“Come here,” Jet says, and it works just as well, Spike rising with that feline grace of his. He gets a leg over Jet’s broad lap and settles in, straddling him, his fingertips brushing Jet’s forearms, sparking metal nerves and skin. Jet thinks again of saying he was a lion tamer, how in that moment at the club with Spike at his feet, Jet’s fingers wound in his hair, it felt possible to him that he could control a wild thing.

Up this close Spike’s eyes are dark, serious and wanting, a light bruise dusting his cheekbone from taking down the acrobat. He’s half breathless already like they’re midway through a fight and Jet wants to take the rest of it, wants to take everything Spike has to give him and keep it.

“You sure about this?” Spike asks even though Jet’s hands have already stolen into his open jacket to encircle his waist. It’s smaller than he expected it to be, the tips of his thumbs meeting in the center of him, feeling out shirt buttons, the closed placket, the muscles of Spike’s stomach beneath.

Jet looks up at him, a rare position to be in and amusing for it. “Yeah,” Jet says, even though he’s not. But he’s sure of Spike, sure he can trust him, and that can be enough to justify giving in.

“Good, I’ve wanted you for too long,” Spike says, and kisses him.

It all cracks Jet open, Spike’s words, Spike’s mouth on his. Spike’s eager about it, his hands interlocking around the back of Jet’s neck, thumbs on his jaw tipping Jet’s head up so Spike can have his mouth exactly how he wants. He’s everywhere on top of Jet, pressed as close as he can get, practically forcing Jet’s hands around to cup his ass. When Jet feels the press of Spike’s dick against his stomach his own hips shift up like they’re fucking already, his body more than ready for it.

Spike pulls back only to demand, “Take me to bed,” so Jet does, getting a good grip on him and lifting them both up off the couch. Spike laughs a little, high and startled, his legs wrapping around Jet’s waist as Jet gets his balance and carries him the whole way, grateful for once that the Bebop isn’t all that large.

“You sure you don’t want to be the one leading a guy around on a leash?” Jet asks him as Spike’s back hits his bedroom door, Jet fumbling with the handle as Spike clings to him even tighter, leaving bitey little kisses on Jet’s neck.

“Why, you volunteering?” Spike asks, which is just too much breathed hot against the new bruise Jet can feel rising on his throat; Jet can only handle a certain amount of new information about his own sexual proclivities in twenty-four hours, especially when it’s all accompanied by Spike’s knowing smirk.

“Get your clothes off,” Jet says instead of answering, because questions like that need more consideration than Jet’s capable of giving them with Spike already half undressed on his back on Jet’s bed. He can barely take his eyes off the guy, stripping out of his own jumpsuit mainly by touch and sense memory. Once Spike is naked he takes over, and Jet feels like he’s ten feet tall and also a god based on the thrilled-verging-on-worshipful look that crosses Spike’s face when he gets Jet’s cock out. Jet’s a big guy and pretty proportional all over, which has sometimes been an issue when he’s been with more petite people. Spike does not appear worried in the least.

“I am furious,” Spike says, “that we didn’t do this sooner.” He has the good grace to look in Jet’s eyes when he says it, though he’s already got Jet’s cock in a grip suggesting he has no intention of letting it go until he’s done with it.

Jet lets himself be guided onto the bed, Spike laying himself out on his back in a sprawl that might look lazy if his nudity didn’t transform it into something artful, considered. Jet looks him over because he wants to and because he feels like Spike wants him to. It’s no hardship to appreciate the work Spike puts into his body: his lean fighter’s build, muscular arms and slim thighs, sharp hipbones and the flat stretch of skin between them, his cock standing out hard and ready with his other hand wrapped around it.

“How do you want me?” Spike asks, giving himself an easy stroke, spread out like they have all the time in the world.

Jet’s glad he remembered to lock the door behind them; he wants to make Spike moan loud enough to be heard through inches of glass and metal, to let the good citizens of this moon know that Spike’s his for the moment, the minute, the hour, the evening. He won’t hope for longer. Well, he won’t hope out loud. “Jesus, Spike,” he says, and lets it be an answer when he pushes Spike’s thighs further apart, trying not to linger on the obscene softness of the insides of them, tender pale olive where the sun never touches. He fits himself into what space he has and swallows Spike’s cock down.

“Oh fuck,” Spike says, like this has shocked him. Jet’s mildly offended, as if Spike should have known that Jet would be a giver in bed, then curious, wondering what Spike thought he would be like. Jet only ever really thought about kissing Spike in his more helpless drunken moments, or when they’ve just escaped another shootout and Spike’s still glittering with the thrill of it, or when the sun through the skylight hits the curve of Spike’s cheekbone where he’s slouched on the chair and Jet has to look away.

Spike’s sweet under him, his hand going to Jet’s shoulder like he just needs the contact, blunt fingernails digging in when Jet takes him deep. It’s been awhile since Jet’s sucked cock and Spike’s pretty thick, Jet feeling the stretch in his lips, the head hitting the back of his throat when Spike shifts his hips up. The move is barely enough to count as a thrust. That Spike’s trying to be polite when Jet wouldn’t be averse to choking on him is strangely adorable and just makes Jet work harder to make him lose that control.

Each noise Jet pulls from Spike’s throat is a victory, and each victory only makes him hungrier for the next. Jet’s lips meet his metal fingers wrapped around the base of Spike’s cock, the blunted sensation worth it for the trade of his other hand mapping out all of Spike that he can reach. Spike’s skin is fever hot, thin over defined muscle, and Jet wants to feel it under his tongue too, wants to taste the heat of him, scrape his teeth over each fading and fresh bruise, bite each hard nipple just to hear Spike cry out.

“You have to,” Spike says, his voice weak, breath catching, “you have to stop, I don’t want to come until you’re fucking me.” Jet inhales sharply at that, too far down on Spike’s cock for him not to feel it on the inside of Jet’s throat. It makes Spike whine, “Please, come on,” pushing at Jet’s shoulder until he sits up, Spike’s cock slipping from his mouth wet and flushed and looking as goddamn nice as a cock’s ever looked.

“You sure you can take me?” Jet asks, his voice hoarse, finally touching himself properly again because even rutting against the mattress a little was getting him there he was so hot for the feel of Spike’s dick in his mouth.

Spike groans, putting a hand protectively over his cock like he needs to calm it down. “Yes I’m fucking sure,” he says. “And if I can’t, then just make me take it anyway.”

“Okay,” Jet says, proud of the fact that it doesn’t sound as faint as he feels. He also doesn’t want to come until he’s fucking Spike, which is tough because Spike keeps saying things. “Okay,” Jet repeats, in case Spike might think Jet needs further encouragement, causing him to continue his quest to upend everything Jet thought he understood about his own sexual proclivities.

Spike’s impatient as Jet gets the lube, watching his every move with one hand already on his ass, baring himself so there’s no mistaking where Jet’s wanted. Jet’s slicked fingers look too big even, next to where Spike’s so tight, but he’s easy for it when Jet pushes one in, sighing out like he’s been waiting for this forever and it’s a relief to finally get it.

Two makes for a tighter fit, of course, even more so when Spike gasps and clenches down on him as Jet strokes inside him. Pleased, Jet keeps rubbing that spot, distracted by the sight of Spike beginning to fall apart for him, fitting another finger in. The tightness has begun to feel impossible, even though Spike’s far too bruised and bullet-scarred to suggest he can’t handle pain. Jet would roll over for Spike too, if Spike wanted that. He’d do anything Spike wants, that’s the problem.

“If I get on your dick I'm gonna come in about two seconds,” Spike says finally, his cock so hard it looks like it hurts, leaving little smears of pre-come gleaming under his navel when he rolls his hips to take Jet's fingers in deeper. “But I want those two seconds, let me ride you.”

“Yeah,” Jet says in agreement with all of it. He barely gets a hand on himself to get his cock wet before he’s being manhandled onto his back like Spike’s the one in charge here, which - okay, he is and always has been. Jet submits to being laid out like a long-anticipated feast, at least according to the way Spike’s looking down at him, and only touches Spike again once Spike’s taken hold of him. He looks far too pleased with himself, rubbing the length of Jet’s cock between his cheeks over his tight little asshole like a fucking tease, so Jet gets his hands under Spike’s thighs and lifts him up a few inches, forcing a startled little noise out of him.

Jet raises an eyebrow and Spike accepts the challenge, positioned perfectly by Jet’s tense hands holding him up to take the first inch into himself, then another, another, until Jet lets go and Spike sits all the way down on Jet’s cock, his head thrown back, back arched, trembling as he takes it all.

His composure’s shattered, mouth dropped open as he looks down at Jet, breathing hard with how full he is. It’s almost too much to look at him; in the moment Spike feels like he has the tightest ass Jet’s ever fucked, the hottest, the fucking best. That’s enough to have Jet on the edge already without adding on the sight of Spike starting to ride him, tentative at first, circling his hips and squirming like he’s trying to open himself up better, working to make it fit.

“How’s it feel?” Jet asks, hungry to hear Spike admit that it’s too much, knowing he won’t. He thrusts up, just a little, just once, and it pulls a cry from Spike’s throat, makes him grip his own cock harder, rubbing a soothing thumb over the glistening head of it.

“Fucking big,” Spike says, high and thin like he’s choking on it too. He spreads his thighs wider, enough that he must feel the strain, taking some of his weight off Jet so it’s easier for Jet to move under him. “Fuck me, come on, give it to me.”

Jet does as Spike says. He curls his hands back under Spike’s thighs, gets a good grip on him and uses the leverage to fuck his way up into Spike’s ass until he’s bouncing on it, their skin slapping together. Spike braces one hand on Jet’s stomach and strokes himself almost languidly with the other, gripping his cock so hard that Jet can’t tell if he’s trying to keep from coming or if he just likes touching himself to hurt.

“Make yourself come, I wanna watch you come on my dick,” Jet says, because he thinks Spike wants to hear it, and because he’s not gonna last much longer himself with Spike taking it so beautifully, like he was made to take cock, made to fuck and be fucked. That he’s chosen to deal in death and darkness feels like a true shame now that Jet knows Spike has this in him, like his gain is the sex trade’s loss.

Spike does what Jet says for once, gasping out his name as he comes hot over Jet’s abs and chest, his ass clenching on Jet’s cock, thighs squeezing tight around his waist. With his dark eyes focused on Jet it’s hard to think of anything else but Spike, Spike straddling him for that first kiss, Spike at the club asking how long have I been yours?, Spike having his back these past few years, sharing this home with him, this life. Spike touches Jet’s chest, fingertips slipping through his own come as he strokes Jet's skin just to feel it, and Jet wishes there was a way to keep those hands from ever holding a gun again.

Jet grabs Spike’s hips and forces them down as he fucks his hips up, stuffing Spike full again, but Spike’s too wrecked now to cry out again. He just takes it, lowers himself to kiss Jet with lazy, sated greed, and somehow it’s just Spike’s tongue in his mouth that makes Jet give up and come.

Spike smiles against Jet’s mouth when he feels it, self-satisfied verging on smug, and Jet bites lightly at his lower lip because that’s what Spike gets for being a brat. But Spike just likes that too. Figures.

“We’re gonna have to do that again,” Spike says. He doesn’t wince as he climbs off Jet, but Jet’s seen him take a bullet with annoying stoicism so there’s no telling how he actually feels.

“I’ll need at least twenty minutes,” Jet says. And a glass of water. Maybe a sandwich. Maybe a couple of sandwiches.

“I meant sometime in the general future beyond today,” Spike says, lying heavily down next to him, “but I love your spirit.”

Jet turns to look at him, at his familiar face, dark eyes and kissed mouth. Spike’s just looking at the ceiling, the outline of his profile a perfect thing, handsome but unknowable. “One of these days you’re gonna have to tell me who you really are,” he says.

“One of these days,” Spike says, looking at Jet and then looking away again, through the window to the golden sky and out farther into space, “I hope I’ll be that fearless.”