He punches as hard; Angel never did hold back, souled or not. The fist ploughing into his gut is brutal, like the knuckles grinding lip against teeth, until the sweet sting of torn flesh reminds him of a hundred blows that left his mouth just this ruined, just this ripe to be kissed clean.
But as they fight, with Spike painting a blood-limned grin on his face to annoy, he knows it's different now.
He can remember kneeling, conquered, before Angelus, but the thumb opening his mouth was never gentle.
It is now.
Or maybe he's finally stopped fighting it.
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