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| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: The Soul cage Author: Spirit Pairing: Angelus/William Rating: NC-17 Setting: Fanged Four Days It's like caressing molten silk. He touches the silky strands over and over, feeling them slide through his fingers, tensing in his hands. It is hard to resist pulling at the hair, because he so wants to claim all this, but something, (an extra sense perhaps) tells him that this is not the time. And he is, if not content, drifting on a rough sea; a survivor. The object of his affection seems to feel the hesitation and leans back, perhaps aware of the nearness of pain. He is not sure if it's eagerness or worry that causes such concern, but hard planes are much more tangible and he wraps a fist round the length of hair. His other hand slides lower, trying to catch an angled cheekbone as his hip presses forward. He wants to touch and feel and brush against this immortal, owning the still perfection of the dead in a thousand caresses. There is nothing that changes here; he will look this way forever, and in that time he will see Empires crumble from such contact. A Judas kiss is suddenly worth more than gold or the other treasures that called to him in that other life. And he understands that the now is frightening, that this instant is but ash in the wind, brushing past his new existence before he can see it. But he will look, he will try to taste, and the ever hanging present calls to him again. Soft lips press against him, urging his solidity forward into the dark. Into the warmth of a hidden cave he sinks, wondering if the temperature has dropped, or if the stillness of decay has stolen all his heat. He wishes, not for the first time, that they had lit a fire - because the demon crows inside him, demanding and taking what it desires. And he is willing to a point, but he still wishes it were not so damned cold. He still dreams of the warmth of a marriage bed, and of pressing a woman who is not his wife into its depths. He can call the edges of forever, he will see the sun set for its final time, but this instant all he cares about is the pleasure. And as his fingers twist tighter, he feels the low hum of pleasure against his body. Pain is a part of this, he has been told; pain is sometimes the only thing you have left - this he knew anyway. But the wind howls behind him, and his fists are clenched against its chill, drawing that mouth deeper. A part of him longs to forget that which made him human; he wants to push all that away, forgetting the shape of mortality whilst he is such a God. But it is too much with him and whilst the morning sun is now forbidden, he can dream of green fields by daylight. He can, if he tries hard, remember the push of warm flesh on warm flesh, the chillness of the night pimpling their bodies as they sought to melt into one another. He wants this now, he wants to be vital and moan his death into the hollow of her throat. But he has ripped that tasty pleasure away, shedding redness over the last of her virginal white. He has seen the lace torn from her breasts, exposing another wound - the mark of another on her cream. And this betrayal has borne more than a knife in her throat, or that of her erstwhile lover. This mark has gained her death at the mouth of the infinite. And she goes to her unmarked grave screaming his name. Screaming madness in some soiled bed. Here be monsters and they bite. There is a gulp and he pulls back, determined to see his lifelessness in that supple mouth. His hand tightens, seeing the whiteness in the red, smelling the salt and wishing for more. Brown eyes meet blue and he is aware of a need for kisses, bloodthirsty and ripe between them. Without a noise, he sinks to his knees and tugs forward, merging fangs with flesh, spilling tainted fluid across his chin. He feels the mildness of pain, given freely as his mouth is torn at. They have lips; they cannot kiss. They have mouths; they cannot taste. Strange that such perception is only gained through death; they have seen the Reaper first hand and existed beyond. They are the true ghosts, existing on the edges of vision, protected by myth. If you do not believe, you do not die. If you do not believe, you haven't lived. And in the hands of this beast, he is willing to accept all that. Yes one, yes all - I am the demon, I am the creature that walks the night. I am what you will call me, but I am also myself. And is there some space for that creature here? Is there a moment between blood and flesh that he may call his own? Blood travels to his chest, staining the newly bought shirt as fingers seek to rip it away. He moves a hand to cover them, relishing this strength as he pushes the fingers back to their owner. There is a moment of hesitance and he begins to wonder if he should not have insisted so; if he needs to prove that he is deserving. But fingers move nimbly over the clothes, shedding them with such haste that he wonders how old is too old for young love. He wonders if desire is meted out in handfuls. Fingers still clenched in the mass of now tangled locks, he urges his prize onto his knees, nudging apart the lean thighs with his own. There are lines here, translucent by moonlight, and he wants to lean down and kiss and touch and taste. But as he bends forward, deep cherry Christens the flesh, drawing yet another line between what was and what is. With his free hand he moves to touch it and wipe the marks away, but he is so cold, and it looks warm to his vampire eyes. He parts the white flesh with his fingers, seeking access to warmth, but even here it is cold. Even now, when the most intimate places are exposed for him to see, there is no hidden heat. And despite the clean beauty of these white planes, he feels a deep-seated longing for imperfection. He could take the riding crop that hangs in the corner and lash this frame, breaking open the skin in one of a hundred places. He could do all that and more, hearing the agonized moans of undead pleasure as he vents his rage. But by morning, it will all be flesh made whole; his ability to change negated. And as his flesh melds within the other, he clings to the rope of hair, reigning in his own fear as much as his lover. Because he is beginning to lose more than just his erection here; and he worries that one day he will wake, and all that he was will be a distant memory. Depravity is becoming his mainstay, and the crack of the whip is ever closer each time he succumbs. He pounds back and forth, hand clinging to the fleshed out hip, but he cannot bring himself to lower his mouth to the beast. He wants to drink, needs to feel the heady fluid in his throat, but he can't, he won't and the press of Armageddon marches ever near. The throb that permeates his body is growing in stature and tears threaten as his flesh betrays him. Because the human him, the *real* him would have found no pleasure here. His demon owns the body, and its control has become less tenuous than his own. It is so easy to surrender, and it beckons him, curling its tendrils round his dead heart as tightly as the hair wound round his fingers. And he wants it, opening his system to the beast, welcoming the decay. Come find me, come fuck me and I'll be yours for all eternity. Just keep the dragons from the door when I sleep. Keep my dreams peaceful, for they are *not* yours. And if I choose to see humming birds, do not make me destroy them. But he knows already that his demands will go unheeded, and that all promises are lies in pretty boxes. So he rock his way onward, closing his eyes tightly against the cold, promising himself that tomorrow he will try again. Promising that he still exists within these tortured walls. His body shudders inside the other, shuddering to a halt as he spills deep. And as his grip finally releases the strands, fangs are at his neck, and he is quite sure it is not blood but his soul that is being drained. All the same, he cannot help but cling to this illusion, stretching out his fingertips as he watches the thing flit away. My soul has wings, he whispers to himself, and all its feathers are blue black. He watches for a moment, closing his eyes again as he realizes Heaven or Hell beckons. He does not care to know. The suction slips from his neck and he gasps silently, addicted already to the seduction in the act. He watches as his lover sits back, dressing without shame, a sinful smile caught on his lips. The shadows beneath his hair are darker with the flush of feeding, and several strands remain caught in Will's fingers. This is no devil, this is not the ultimate evil, just his personal nightmare. And he will crave it until he becomes ash. 'You know what I've given you.' 'Yes.' 'You're free - you're unbound by human frailty.' Will watches the blackened hair as Angelus sweeps it back into its ribbon, noting the planes of the face he both fears and adulates. And he wants to ask for it all back - because he finally thinks he understands. The demon does not rip the soul away, but shreds it into pieces small enough to detach without notice. And he has nothing left. He sniffs the air and offers his sire a smile. 'I'm hungry, let's eat.' ~finis~ Feedback Read the Sequel |