Sex and the Church
It always ended up here. No matter what was going on at the Firm. No matter who was killing whom in the alleys and on the streets and in the fucking halls of the building he worked in *lived in* … he had this.
He still had this.
The candles burnt down, an inch from the base. A breath and he could smell incense and dust and tears in the air around him.
Angel knelt in the first pew. Alone in the church. Not praying to a God that never answered, not offering himself to a higher power that only used him for a pawn, for a toy. He knelt and he waited for the one being on earth that would look for him here. That would find him here. The one person in his life that knew where to look for him that ever cared to find him, which Angel ever cared to be found by.
Angel closed his eyes. His palms itched to hold denim and skin. His mouth was wet from the need to taste the familiar. His cock was hard. Thick. Slightly warmer than the rest of him. And his mind warred with his body, his demon with his soul.
I come seeking absolution …
The sedation of desire and perfect, unholy passion.
Angel didn’t have to open his eyes to know Spike was there. He could smell his scent color the air before the doors moved. Tobacco and whiskey and blood moved through dead cells.
He licked his lips and waited. Forever patient for the reality behind the costumes they wore with remarkable ease in front of humans. Endlessly tolerant of the constant war, for the rewards along the way were more than he would ever expect.
“I want you.”
Brown eyes on blue. Cotton on denim, where it once was leather on leather. Fingers slid through hair that used to be longer, with a touch that used to be harsher. Harder. But the kiss, the bite was always the same. Tongues twisting. Teeth growing, blue/brown became yellow/gold. Moans became growls, sighs became a low, rumbling purr that vibrated the wood around them.
“Remember when the Priests used to watch us as they died?”
Spike whispered and Angel shook his head. Denied and relived as his hips ground against Spike’s and his hands ripped material away from the skin he had to have. Blood ran from their necks down their chests and they fought over who’s lips got to follow which flow to find fingers popping buttons and belts and zippers tearing.
Saints stared down from stained glass windows or sculptures or paintings as they writhed. Beautiful demons in a place that burned skin as they stripped and changed. No one else in this world that Angel could do this to, that he could be like this with, that knew him.
“I need you.”
Almost unintelligible lost in the sound of skin on skin in the undefiled silence that surrounded them.