More. Spike/Angel. R

[ignited]

A moan. It is that of an animal, pressed against the wall, the surface cold, sleek. The hilt touches flesh, eyes snapping open, and it calls again. Another cry. He lays his fingers onto rough leather, torn and tattered, before they move up again. Slow, they work their magic, trailing a bloody swath. Past the collarbone, the ears, to twirl a strand of bleached blonde.

His other hand grabs the hilt. He has cold fingers, strong, grasping, searching. The Angel shoves the blade into his broken boy, and then he smiles.

Because he know his William’s moaning only means-

“More.”