Scars

by PhoenixDru

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Possession

Pairing: Angel(us)/Spike

I feel his fangs press against my skin and suppress a hiss as they sink in, and he buries them in my shoulder.  A gentle draining - soft whisper of death - and I can't help but wonder if this time it will scar, leaving a thin sliver of memory on flesh for me to touch when he's gone.

He removes his fangs and laps at the blood that wells up in their wake, as I merely lie there and watch.  It isn't my blood, is it?  Not my blood that stains those soft lips.  It isn't my blood that rushes to my cock as his fingers tiptoe over the head, followed by the engulfing force of his mouth.

Jesus sweet Christ, they should market that mouth.  It'd have nuns and popes lying prostrate in the street, all pouting lips and soft skin and - dear God! - sign me up for the whole stock because I'll need them when the original no longer makes himself available, won't I?

And that very sinful, delicious mouth is working it's way up my body like feather touches laced with nettles, because he's dragging his fangs beneath in a tingling scrape.  I want him to rip flesh and claim me as his own but he won't.  He can't.  A thousand generations of Sire and Childe law forbids it.

{{"The laws no longer apply to us, boy.  We're free."}}

Free from everything but ourselves.

Lips on lips on lips and clenching fists in soft hair, tugging at his scalp because I keep forgetting that the days of soft brown curls are gone, replaced by hair that tries to emulate the sun.  Hungry mouths and dancing tongues and why does something so wrong feel so.fucking.right?

{{Somewhere, out there in the daylight, She's not missing him.}}

Wrong because he's giving too much for me to be able to walk away in the morning and I must leave then, when he's cocooned in whatever evil dreams about.  Wrong because, if I stay and accept the offer he makes with his hands and tongue and body, then I can't ever leave.  Wrong because I know that I'm going to stay.

Wrong because I want to stay.  I want to have him, and fuck him, and make love to him - I want to love him.

{{I'm your Sire, boy.  That means I own you."

 "Yes, Sire."}}

The things you own end up owning you.

It's wrong because he's looking at me with eyes like welcoming glaciers and I'm claiming those lips and that body like he never will, drawing rivulets of blood in rail tracks down his skin, nipping and ripping flesh and glorying in his enthusiastic submission as I fuck his willing body.  Nothing quite so satisfying as burying myself in that tight ass and fucking my way to atonement; perhaps I should suggest to the church that sodomy be encouraged as an absolution of sins, because that's the only way I would ever convert.

And as he screams my names over and over to whatever gods choose to listen, I can feel my mind breaking into a million pieces all at once as I orgasm and I remember -

{{"Mine, boy! You're mine!"

 "Always, Angelus!"}}

- not every scar is one that you can see.