Title: Beautiful Lies
Author: C’est moi
Pairing: Spike/Angel
Rating: M
Setting: Angel/Buffy canon(ish)
As Spike arches up into Angel, an ‘I love you’ forms on his tongue.
He swallows it back hard, through gritted teeth, groaning low and bucking back towards Angel as he thrusts into Spike again. Spike feels white heat flash through him, the violent grip of Angel’s fingers burrowing into his hips, the grain of the wooden floor tearing into his knees and the relentless pulsing rhythm of Angel fucking him raw as his own body is forced ever closer to blinding orgasm.
Spike bites down hard on his bottom lip and draws blood, an intense guttural roar escapes him as he comes; his hot, salty essence spilling in short bursts onto the hard floor beneath them. Angel continues his frenzied assault until he finally comes hard inside of Spike, roaring thunderously through his release. Sweating and sated, the vampires slump to the floor in a hot tangle of bruised, aching limbs, bloodied flesh and sweat slicked skin.
Angel curls himself in behind Spike, pulling his lithe body in close as he traces small delicate kisses across his nape. Spike closes his eyes against the shiver travelling down his spine and pushes himself back into Angel’s curled form. The elder vampire delicately traces a line along Spike’s hipbone as he kisses along the length of his neck and up to his ear. Angel gingerly nips at the blonde’s ear lobe making Spike release a small surprised yelp and he grins against his throat. Angel resists the urge call him on it. For the time being, at least.
He sighs and nestles into Spike and closes his eyes, mindful of the fact that brief moments of gratification are all they’ll ever have. Fight. Fuck. Separate. And so begins the vicious cycle all over again. Each time the need arises, they meet with violent clashes which quickly surge and swell into destructive, but ultimately satisfying, crescendos. Brutality and carnality is delivered in equal measure with fists, fangs or anything close to hand to inflict injury, illicit pleasure or an indistinct combination of both.
The bursts of violence elicited, much like their arrangement, is volatile and bloody. Blood is drawn early to heighten their visceral senses to make them acutely aware of the other. As their vicious physicality draws them into closer and closer quarters, their primal hostility gradually subsides. Bone-crushing blows are slowly replaced by urgent, needy caresses that pull them deeper into the shadows. Their torn and bloodied clothing is hastily discarded through frenzied kisses and grinding hips as their bodies silently explicate their basest desires.
Angel breaks from his brief reverie – needing to be in the here and now – and nestles in closer to Spike taking in what he can of him, while he can. Time and again Angel catches himself on the verge of revealing a soul destroying truth in those brief, shining moments; when he looks into his lovers’ eyes, holds him in his arms, tastes the hot salty tang of his skin, his blood; the intensity of his passion for the man in his arms burning fierce and hot within.
Angel knows he doesn’t need to say it but he wants to. He longs for Spike to not only hear the words, but to know them, to truly comprehend the nature of what lies within his heart. With the eternally mute stars above bearing sole witness, Angel wishes he could let the words falls from his lips to land on Spike’s ears without fear of consequence. In their release lies their power… and their peril. The pragmatist in him knows the penalty all too well, and the sick fucker delights in taking every opportunity to remind him of the atrocities committed as Angelus; keenly bringing his vile reality crashing down around him again.
Spike gets how their arrangement works and he resents it just as much as Angel does. He tries to keep as still as he can within his sire’s steely embrace not wanting to break their post coital spell. He relishes these moments of silent contemplation in Angel’s arms but both vampires know the routine – they can have the lyrics, but never the melody. All too soon comes the point where they’ll spin their oft-repeated lies to each other, some more embellished than when they last met and others tinged with a century’s worth of malicious hurt. Their effect is always the same and it’s the only thing that matters.
Where there is pain, serenity finds no abode.
They recognise that they have to get more creative and hurtful each time so as to not get complacent. They need these beautifully constructed lies to keep the devil from their door – a necessary evil to keep Angelus at bay. This is also the most difficult part. This is where they’ll deliberately walk away from what they want most, leaving their lover’s embrace to lie in empty beds, silently yearning to stay with him as the bitter sting of separation burns cold in their veins.
Spike and Angel ache for a day, a single solitary day, where none of the rules apply and they could experience some semblance of what it is to be content, but mostly to say and hear the words neither can say. The last lights of that shared hope have all but faded… and neither dares challenge the status quo that holds them in check.
Spike lights a cigarette as he walks away quickly casting a longing glance over his shoulder towards Angel’s departing form. “Fucking hell,” he mutters indignantly with a small disgusted shake of his head. He spits on the ground to emphasise his point, draws his dusty jacket in close around his torso and continues on his way.
As the vampires hastily depart in the growing light of the predawn, it’s clear to both that Angelus remains the unwitting victor, the reigning monarch holding court over the course of their eternal lives… and that they are just as damned as he is, if not more so.
Fin.
RantyPants! 