forms of expression
It’s the words that undo him.
Spike talks all the time. Stream-of-consciousness fucking, a waterfall of deep mumbles and leisured, licking vowels. His mouth moves over Angel’s skin in moans and whispers, all the dirty little things Spike wants, all the things he wants Angel to do to him.
Spike’s mind is even filthier than Angel’s, and Angel didn’t think that was possible.
The words fall on Angel’s skin like silk, ghosts from a past when they didn’t have to be good, save the world, worry about what was right. Sire and Da and Angelus, Christ yes Angelus there just there, a perverse chorus of hosanna singing his praises. All in that buttery voice that melts in Angel’s ear and gets him slick, hard. Eager.
Angel doesn’t speak. Spike isn’t listening anyway, and he knows it’s not words that Spike wants from him. He wants to feel Angel’s hands on him; kneading, bruising. Knuckles and fingertips. Shaping Spike into something elastic and supple. Bendable.
The bending gives rise to other words, more and please, tumbling in such a rush that Angel has to stop Spike’s mouth with a kiss, hands hard on the back of Spike’s neck, the side of his face. Rough thrusts now, and the sounds escape the seal of Angel’s lips, incoherent, eloquent. Spike’s skin is heated like thrown clay.
A syllable falls from Angel’s lips, Will; and it’s less a word than an etching, a portrait of the poet as a young man. It’s enough to produce sonnets of sound from the body beneath him. And after, Spike lets Angel shape and sand and sign his name into the bottom corner of Spike’s skin.