I'm still not sure where I got this meme. I know I found it while I was looking for links one day, doing the su_herald, but I can't tell you where it started and I don't know where or when it was supposed to end ... all I can say is that I wanted to play and I wanted to write a seriously kinked out ficlet and um, this is what fell out of my brain.
So much could be happening here. Affairs. Honeymoons. Evading the law. Ghostbusting. You name it. Write a short scene, any fandom or original fiction. Leave it in the comments or post to your LJ and leave a link. Don't over-think it. Let your scene be as impetuous as the things that are going on in this fine establishment. Put your fandom/pairing/rating in the subject line. Otherwise, there are no rules at the Pink Shell Motel!"
I Bind Unto Myself Today…
Not mine. Never will be. Never have been.
Thanks to lostakasha for the beta and to tabaqui who I must always have read and check when I write Spike. Because we all know a weak, wussy Spike is a bad, bad thing. But a weird, kinky Angel can be fun.
Here's to me, and here's to you,
And here's to love and laughter-
I'll be true as long as you,
And not one moment after.
“Been too long, Angel.”
The garish glow from the neon sign that hung outside the window of the hotel room made Spike’s bare chest a canvas of pink and black. The mosaic of shadow and light changed when he shifted on the cheap shell-patterned bedspread, his arms cuffed and chained to the headboard. The brittle wood creaked when he moved and each time Angel was motionless until the sound ceased.
“It always is, Spike.”
Spike could break through the wood. He could snap the metal. But the trick here was to not. The secret was to give in to the passion, to ride the waves of desire and let whichever of them was in control own the moment.
“Don’t stop … fuck … don’t stop.”
Angel knelt between Spike’s spread thighs. His tongue lapped at cool, spicy blood that dripped from two punctures on the inside of Spike’s hipbone and his mouth was smeared with liquid that in the unlit room was opaque lipstick. Spike shuddered and twisted, helpless to the painpleasurepain of Angel’s fist inside him. Long fingers curled and Angel watched with yellow eyes as the muscles of Spike’s abdomen rippled. He inhaled the scent of Spike’s cock and licked over blade-sharp teeth.
“Don’t tell me what to do, Spike.”
“Thought you … thought you liked it that way.” Spike’s voice was a low, harsh whisper.
Angel turned his wrist, his knuckles rubbed over the hard knot inside Spike. One, two, three, four and Spike’s hips jerked. His body shook with a spasm. Angel waited until Spike regained control. Angel’s groin flooded with that unfamiliar/familiar heat.
The room smelled of sea-salt, sweat, sex and blood interwoven with Lysol and mold. An inhale and they could tell even through clean sheets and cheap disinfectant that the last two in this bed had been women. Lovers, illicit and hidden, if the leftover tension and passion was anything to trust.
Angel watched as Spike’s face changed, as his eyes flashed from blue to gold to blue. Spike’s brow ridged, smoothed and then wrinkled with a frustration that made Angel smile and in that moment, looking down in the dim of the room, Spike saw Angelus in Angel’s eyes -- on his face.
Spike’s body clamped and clenched and pulsed around Angel’s fist and fingers as though sex brought their hearts back to life. A false, pale imitation, but still something they chased with every random, secret night. Stirred up the past that colored every conversation, every sharp look that passed between them since Spike had risen from ashes and amulet. Something that only they could find together.
Angel pulled his fist out of Spike slowly. He stopped as he reached the widest point of his hand. Fingers bent and knuckles flexed and Spike quivered on the sheets. Electricity surged between them, a connection that was built on more than simple years and near-constant battles where there was no victor and no loser.
“Say the words, Spike.”
Angel’s mouth hovered a sigh away from the bite that seeped blood, the tip of his tongue touched the black liquid. Dark and rich and copper and kinship. Spike’s cock was a hard throb an inch away, his hips trembled under Angel’s lips.
Angel half-turned his wrist and Spike’s fingers ripped through the sheets. Spike snarled and growled and whispered with a spit that sounded more like a feral cat than a vampire.
“Fuck you, Angel.”
“Not this time.”
Angel pulled the rest of his hand free of Spike’s body. His fist and fingers streaked with lube and blood and the demon inside him roared with approval, Angelus smirked in his cage and Angel’s soul was quiet for a change.
Spike was not.
He twisted and shivered, the chains scraped through the wood and the bed frame protested. Angel climbed up on his hands and knees, never losing contact with Spike’s eyes. Almost colorless in the dim light, the shades of unnatural pink and red and gray moonbeams mixed and only Spike’s teeth gleamed perfectly white as he smiled.
“Fuck me, Angel. Do it. Do it, now.”
“I just did. I nearly reached up through your ass to touch your heart and all I’m asking is for you to say the words, Spike. Just say them.”
Sharp shine and reflection as Spike writhed beneath him. Pale skin, hard to differentiate from the ruined sheets. Room temperature saliva spat up to Angel’s jaw. He covered Spike’s spread and bound body with his own. Wide shoulders over shoulders, chest pressed to chest.
Angel circled his hips, his cock slid alongside Spike’s in a dance they’d done for over a century. Time and time again, in various countries. On straw mats and on velvet bedspreads. Bent over dining tables at Versailles and during banquets and balls in Prussia. Both of them slick with sweat, their bodies warmed from fresh human blood in and out. They used intestines as lubricants and blessed oils from a priest’s desk to create finger-painted patterns of burns on each other’s skin.
And each time it was always the same and always completely different. Soulless or souled, chipped or enslaved by the drowning love for a Slayer or another vampire or a lupine artist or a human woman tortured by visions. Insane or brooding.
“Say it, Angel.”
“Say the words, Spike.”
Angel’s knees spread Spike’s thighs farther apart. He reached down, held his cock at just the right angle and pushed and slid into Spike. Slick and wet; illusions of humanity in the way Spike’s body clenched and in the quick gasp and hiss of breath through teeth that were too sharp and too long and Angel’s mouth sealed over one of the dead veins in Spike’s neck.
“Christ, fuck … Angel … okay. Okay.”
Angel’s head lifted from Spike’s neck when he felt rather than heard the words. His hands moved down to cup Spike’s ass as he fucked into him, pushing that sweet spot with every thrust and the headboard banged against the wall in a jerky, off beat percussion to Spike’s voice.
“Tocuiriur etrum indiu inna uili nert-so
fri cech nert n-amnas n-étrocar frista-i dom churp ocus dom anmain,
fri tinchetla sa-ibfh-aithe,
fri dubrechtu gentliuchtae,
fri saíbrechtu heretecdae,
fri imchellacht n-ídlachtae,
fri brichtu ban ocus goban ocus druad,
fri cech fiss arachuille corp ocus anmain duini.”
Blood smeared from Spike’s neck over Angel’s lips as he smiled. Some of the Gaelic made him wince, like it always had, but he was continually surprised by the memory Spike retained. Continually amazed at their ability to play this game over so many years.
He knew that the taste would be just as bad in his mouth when it would be Spike’s turn. Next. That it would feel just as good to give in and it wouldn’t change a thing between them. It never did. Those sharp blue eyes met Angel’s and they were twins of fire and blasphemy and sin as Spike’s face rippled and changed and stayed this time.
“I’m gonna fucking come now, Angel.”
Against all Satan's spells and whiles,
Against false words of heresy,
Against the knowledge that defiles,
Against the heart's idolatry,
Against the wizard's evil craft,
Against the death wound and the burning,
The choking wave, the poisoned shaft,
Protect me, Christ, till Thy returning.
~ Part of Lorica of St. Patrick (invisible armor of protection)