((A/N: One of those very late night things. I can't sleep, I write strangeness. Just how it works, I guess.))
Pairing: S/A slash
Rated: hard R
(semi-shown sex)Genre: Angst? Porn:
Angsty porn? Search me.
Reviews are loved, yesss.
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Spike's knuckles are white even under his unnaturally pale skin, hands gripping the slats of the headboard with strength enough to leave dents in the expensive wood. He should feel smug about that, surely, but it doesn't even register. There is no room in his mind now for anything but this, the bruising caress of skin on skin and the emptiness so filled he's being pushed from his own body and AngelAngelAngel--There is almost an audible snap as his consciousness falls free, physicality washing over him in waves of excruciating awareness he's rarely felt before, irregular and fragmented and he can almost see himself there on the bed, blurry and white and twisting but someone's turned off the sound, because he can feel his mouth moving but there is no sound except for the bubbling murmur of his thoughts. He's there, so there but also far away, and it strikes him suddenly that he's never been aware enough before to realize how different this is from what he seeks out on his own. Different from Her, for all its apparent parallels.
Or maybe he's just coming at it from the other side- powerful, raw, strangely feral. Sweat and need and pleasurepain tearing his body into wakefulness, in contrast to the more familiar slow buildup of sweetness and sorrow and perfume on his skin.
Not better, maybe- it seems somehow impossible to make an accurate comparison between things so alike, but so different. Apples and bananas, he thinks dizzily, and then his mind is gone again, sent spinning back into the ether with one long hard drag over his prostate.
And his hips are the center of his being now, thighs spread and shoulders uselessly pressed against the pillows by strong arms behind him, leaving him to rock helplessly without leverage. Hips, foreword into a hand and backwards into explosion twitching nerves like fizzing baking soda under his skin. Canting, and is this what it would be like to be a woman? The center of your weight heavy above your legs, open and broken under someone you love or hate, no difference here. Chemical emotions making your blood run hot, making the want almost too much to bear in silence, almost speaking-
But he bites his tongue, and then sucks greedily on the blood as Angel's next thrust drives him foreword on the bed with an almost unconscious violence that lets him know that the splash of red on the pillow hasn't gone unnoticed by vampire senses otherwise occupied. Bloodscent overriding all others, scent of semen and oily Vaseline and fabric softener burned from the sinuses by less than a fluid ounce of life. His life, Spike's, and somehow it makes him feel powerful. Vicious satisfaction, small and irrational but somehow disproportionately significant during this supposed act of submission.
Time is splintered around them, and he doesn't know if they've been fucking for minutes or hours but he can feel it ending too soon, too little to tide him over, because these couplings are few and far between now- avoided, repressed until it all boils over and the flashburn consumes them both. He doesn't like admitting just how hot the fire is, how much he needs this and how his bones ache as if warning him of an approaching storm when the weeks between grow too long. Can't ever speak of it. He has to bite, has to roll the choked silence back in his throat- because if Angel's need is somehow lesser than his own, then he will have handed his heart and shiny new soul to the one already in possession of his body, who is not known for his gentleness with such things.
Angel must never think he owns him.
Never know, corrects a small voice in his fuzzy mind. He tells it to sod off.
"What are you- thinking- about?" In his ear, breathy and warm from a creature that has no breath or warmth. Spike nearly hiccups, he swallows the words he almost spoke so quickly, and tries to summon through the haze some answer other than the truth. A word comes to him from a snatch of fragmented thought- perfect.
"Women," he pants, and if Angel can't see the smirk buried in the cotton pillowcase, he can hear it in Spike's throaty voice. Angel growls deep in his chest and rolls his hips faster, harder, though it's impossible to tell if he's really angry or just making one last bid for possession. Something is tightening in Spike's chest and behind his eyes, and he can't spare even a moment's thought to wonder which it is.
Then everything is ending, breaking apart with the force of a long month of carefully bound hatred and frustrated desire, and it should be wonderful. He should be free, should be satisfied, because isn't this what he's been waiting for?
Somehow, the bitter taste of one more victory seems to overwhelm it all.