No matter what hours Angel Investigations
keeps in their new, still fairly dusty headquarters, no matter what time
of day or night they have to do the research and the work and the investigating,
there's always some period of time when Angel's left alone in the hotel.
Wes knows this is one of those times,
because he himself has just left the Hyperion and is sitting in his car,
staring at the hotel's front doors. He hasn't turned the key in the
ignition and he just sits there, staring. Thinking. About Angel.
Angel is alone in the hotel.
It's three a.m. Wes and Angel have been up hitting the books together,
looking for information on a case. Angel's at his most alert between
dusk and dawn. They all know this, but their cases don't always shape
themselves to Angel's schedule.
It's different, being with Angel when
he's at his sharpest. There's an energy there that he doesn't have
during the day. It's had an unexpected result on Wes.
So, right now, he's sitting in his
car with a raging hard-on, trying to work up the courage to go back into
the hotel.
He's thinking too hard about it, he
knows. He's thinking about what other people might think if they find
out. He's wondering if this means he's gay, and if that means he has
to think of himself as a different person.
Fuck that. He shoves the car
door open and heads for the hotel. Angel will understand. Wes
knows that. Angel understands that need can have nothing to do with
sexuality, that desire doesn't always fit into neat little boxes. So
he pushes the hotel door back open and goes back in, heads for the office
where the light is still on, pausing only to take off his glasses and set
them on the reception counter.
Angel comes out before Wes makes it
to the office. He looks curious, almost concerned. "Wes.
Did you forget something?"
"Yes," says Wes. "I did."
And he goes to Angel and shoves him against the wall. Hard.
Angel is taken aback, and lifts his
hands as if fending off an attack. "What--?" And then Wesley's mouth
on his shuts him up.
Angel grabs Wesley's arms, almost as
if to push him away, then his fingers dig in and he pulls Wes into him, kissing
him back, kissing him hard.
Wes is trying not to think. If
he thinks, he'll be self-conscious and stupid. He knows he wants this,
and he knows it'll be good. He doesn't need to think about anything
else.
The blood rushing out of his brain
helps in this regard. His mouth is full of Angel's thrusting tongue,
his head full of Angel's smell. Then he reaches out, instinctively,
and his hand is full of Angel's cock. It strains against his palm,
through Angel's trousers, and Angel makes a choking sound in the back of
his throat, then pushes Wes back.
"God, Wes," Angel says. "What
got into you?"
"You," Wes replies, "once. I
want it again."
Angel studies him, looks into his eyes.
"Are you sure?"
"Why do you need to ask me that?
I'm a grown man. I think I'm quite capable of making my own decisions."
Angel frowns a little. He looks
perplexed and Wes is afraid he's going to ask more questions. Wes really
has no patience for this. His hand still curls against Angel's erection;
he squeezes a little. Angel gasps and closes his eyes.
"How do you want it?" he asks, and
Wes smiles, a little smug.
"Surprise me."
Angel opens his eyes and looks at Wes.
He's gone, Wes thinks, seeing the lust there. More than lust. Need.
Craving. Desire so deep and ancient Wes can barely comprehend it.
He lets go of Wesley's arms and lays
his hands on either side of Wesley's face. And kisses him.
No one's ever kissed Wes like this.
It's incredible. He's always wondered how Angel and Buffy managed,
those months in Sunnydale, when they'd been unable to act on their mutual
desire. Now he knows. Angel can make kissing a sexual act in
and of itself.
The coolness of his mouth and tongue
are disconcerting at first, but it's easy for Wes to forget once he loses
himself in the movement, the rhythm. Angel's hands slide down Wesley's
back, cup his buttocks, tuck his pelvis tight against him. His tongue
slides over Wesley's lips and past, into his mouth, stroking his tongue,
curling against it.
He turns Wes suddenly, reversing their
positions so Wesley's back is against the wall. Kisses him harder,
deeper, pinning him there, between the wall and Angel's own wide, solid body.
Wes tenses, then makes himself relax.
Angel eases back, just a little, slowing his mouth. Wes puts his hands
against Angel's chest and pushes gently.
Angel breaks off, pulling his mouth
away from Wesley's with obvious effort. "What?" His voice is breathy
with need, but gentle.
Wes swallows. "I needed to know
what it would take to make you stop." As much as he wants this, Wes
is still afraid of it on a deep, primal level he can't control. He
has been violated, and while he's taken some control over that memory, it
still lurks.
Angel's mouth hovers over his, his
lips brushing Wesley's as he whispers, "Just a word. A touch.
Any time you need me to stop, I will." Then his lips flutter on Wesley's,
a softer contact, exploring, coaxing. Wes gives in. He has no
choice, really. Angel's kisses are intoxicating.
His hands move of their own accord,
impatiently opening Angel's shirt buttons. His fingers seem big and
clumsy; he can't maneuver quite quickly enough. He wants his hands
on Angel's body, and finally they are, his palms against bare skin, his fingers
tracing the curves and hollows of abdomen and chest, finding the ridges of
ribs. Angel's hands delve into Wes' hair, holding his head still as
he plunders and arouses his mouth.
Wes hears his own voice rising, sounds
of arousal and contentment filling the back of his throat. Angel's
moaning, too, the vibration of his voice passing through Wesley's tongue.
His fingers digging into the groove
of Angel's spine, he rotates his hips, pressing into Angel's body, pulsing
into his hips, into the thick, hard ridge of his erection. Wes is hard,
too--hard and ready, his cock aching to be touched, clenched, to be *inside.*
Angel pulls his head back again, looks
at the ceiling, then closes his eyes and draws a long breath as if steadying
himself. Wes can feel the tension in his body, the taut ripcords of
muscle under the cool skin. Angel looks at Wes and his eyes carry a
hint of gold, but it fades quickly.
"Wes..."
Wes slides his hands down Angel's back,
his fingers going past his beltline, clenching the tops of his buttocks.
"Yes," Wes says. He's not sure
what he's agreeing to, not sure he cares.
Angel's fingers find Wesley's belt,
unbuckle it, open his trousers. Then he drops heavily to his knees,
pulling Wesley's pants with him.
Wes isn't sure what to think of this,
of Angel on his knees in front of him, then Angel licks his cock and he can't
think at all. Angel's cool tongue slides up the underside of his erection,
wet and slick, and God, Angel knows how to do this, too, knows how to do
this as well as any woman. Better, because he knows how to work a foreskin,
which has baffled nearly every American woman Wes has ever been with.
But of course he would, because he has one, himself.
Angel works him, his hand curled around
his shaft, his mouth on the head of his cock, tongue laving, curling, mobile,
soft, cool. Then his hand loosens, lets go, and he draws Wes all the
way in, deep down his throat.
Wes lets his head fall back against
the wall. Everything he knows has been reduced to this--Angel's mouth
on him, the wet pull, the laving tongue, the deep, burning suction.
Angel's hands clench his buttocks, holding him steady, but Wes' instinct
is to pulse into Angel's mouth. He does this, Angel's hands controlling
the speed and the depth.
God, he's good. Wes weaves his
fingers into the thick, dark hair, not directing Angel, just holding him,
caressing. It's an acknowledgement of sorts, his fingers against Angel's
scalp to remind him exactly where he is, who he's with.
The pressure builds, the fire swirling
taut in his pelvis, rising, and God, he's going to come in Angel's mouth,
and he hopes Angel doesn't mind, because there's not much he can do about
it. He pulls at Angel's hair, gives him fair warning. Angel responds
by reaching between Wesley's thighs and pressing his scrotum up against his
body. Wes' testicles are already high and tight but the extra pressure,
the sure touch of Angel's big hand, sends him over that last precipice, and
he's done, it's over, and he's ejaculating down Angel's throat. He
feels the convulsive pressure against the head of his cock as Angel swallows.
Angel makes a soft noise, as if he's
enjoying this. Wes just moans, incoherent. The moment of ecstasy
seems timeless, as if it will never end, and then it does end, it's over,
and Angel tips his head back. Wesley's cock slides out of his mouth.
"God," says Wesley, and Angel chuckles.
He leans in again, nuzzling Wes' groin. He's all about contact, is
Angel, all about touch and caress, skin, hair, heat. He's rubbing his
face into Wesley's hair, against his thighs, his belly, letting Wesley's
softening erection trace his cheek.
Wes closes his eyes. It's too
much, too intimate, too strange. Too hard to admit to himself that
he wants this, enjoys it. The only thing tempering his discomfort is
Angel's ease. Angel's okay with this--why shouldn't Wes be okay with
it, too?
"You think too much," Angel says suddenly,
his lips moving against Wesley's stomach. He licks him, tongue cool
and soft, making wet circles on his skin. Wes shivers.
"I know."
Angel scrapes blunt teeth across Wesley's
belly. Then he comes to his feet, stands eye-to-eye with Wes.
"What are you thinking now?"
"That you're fully clothed and I have
my trousers around my ankles."
Angel smiles. "Not necessarily
a bad thing." But he slides his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders,
languidly. Suddenly Wes stops thinking and his hands go to Angel, sliding
over his skin, taking in the width of his body, the coiled strength under
his skin.
"That's better," says Angel, and presses
against him, pushing him into the wall. He ducks his head, to mouth
Wesley's neck, runs his tongue up, over his jaw, to his ear. God, Angel
has no compunctions about this at all. He's just there, all over Wesley,
taking everything he can get.
And it feels so good. So damn
good. Wes can barely get his head around how good it is. Certainly
can't quite acknowledge how much he wants it.
His body knows, though. His hips
buck into Angel's and it annoys him that Angel still has his pants on.
Wes grabs Angel's belt buckle. Angel's unbuttoning Wesley's shirt,
and they're both going to be naked in a minute.
Angel's mouth has made it to Wesley's
by now and he kisses him as he shoves his shirt off him. That tongue
is pure magic, Wes thinks, then Angel pulls back and nips at his throat.
"What do you want?" Wes manages.
Angel's chest is hard and solid against his, and he's finally got his hand
inside Angel's trousers. He cups Angel's shaft, hard and big and solid
against his palm. "What do you want to do?"
Angel plows a hand into Wesley's hair.
"I want to bend you over that desk and fuck you silly." His other hand
clasps Wesley's ass, fingers digging in hard. His cock twitches in
Wes' hand.
And he draws back a little, looks carefully
into Wesley's eyes. "What do you want?"
Wes can barely breathe, can barely
hear over the pounding of his own blood. "That...that bending over
the desk thing actually sounds quite good."
"Are you sure?"
Wes nods. Angel kisses him again,
tender this time, soft, careful. "I'll be gentle," he says when he's
done.
"Actually..." Wes hesitates,
and Angel waits for him, patient. "Actually, I think it would be okay
if you weren't."
Angel studies his face, nods, kisses
him again, a little harder, then draws back. "Are you sure?"
"I trust you."
Angel blinks. "Keep this up,
and you'll be staking me in the morning." His voice is a little unsteady
and Wes is suddenly embarrassed. This has gotten very deep and very
scary very quickly. This isn't what Wes is after.
But Angel steps back then, toeing off
his shoes, and as he shucks his trousers the playing field feels a little
more level again.
"Where are you going?" Wes asks, when
Angel turns away.
"There's got to be something around
here we can use."
"Use for what?" Then Wes realizes he
knows the answer, and is embarrassed by the question. But Angel either didn't
hear him or is pretending he didn't, for which Wes is grateful.
Angel is right--Wes thinks too much.
He's busy thinking about all the reasons he should be uncomfortable or embarrassed
instead of all the things he likes about having Angel's hands on him, his
mouth, about having Angel's cock inside him--
"Here we go," says Angel. He
turns back toward Wes, holding up a bottle of olive oil. He's naked
and hard and looks more than a little pleased with himself.
Wes looks dubious. "That'll work?"
"Sure. It's thick, natural, slippery,
and a hell of a lot easier to clean up than Vaseline." He sets the
bottle on the desk and comes back to Wes, who's still just standing there
against the wall.
"Cordelia uses that on her salads,"
he protests weakly, but Angel just shrugs.
"I'll buy her more. This is almost
empty, anyway." He hesitates. "Unless you want to go upstairs."
Wes just shakes his head mutely.
Hesitant, he takes a step toward Angel, then stops, realizing his trousers
are bunched up around his ankles. Flushing, he forces off his shoes,
steps out of his trousers.
When he straightens, Angel is right
there next to him. He reaches out, cups Wesley's face. "If you're
uncomfortable--"
"Kiss me," Wes says, because he knows
that will strengthen his resolve.
Angel obliges, pulling Wes full against
him, chest to chest, cock to cock. Wesley's mostly flaccid now, but
Angel's rock-hard. Wes clutches at him, kissing him, and he's not thinking
anymore, he's just feeling. He grabs Angel's erection, pulls a little
too hard, working the skin. Angel makes an odd sound, and suddenly
Wes finds himself being lifted, moved. Then Angel's mouth breaks free
from him. Angel turns him and, as promised, bends him over the desk.
The olive oil is room temperature,
much like Angel himself, slick and soft on Wesley's skin. Angel is
careful, but Wes is face-down and helpless on the desk, and suddenly he remembers.
He clenches. And it hurts. Shit, it hurts. It's like being
stabbed. This is the first time Angel has hurt him and Wes drives his
fingers into the desk, almost sobbing. He expects to be driven into,
hard, brutal, with no consideration for his pain. Because that was
the way it was before, in the dark, pinned into his own bed by his father's
body reeking of cigarette smoke and whisky and why would it be any different
now here in this room that smells of coffee and dust and vampire, pinned
to the desk by Angel's heavy bulk....
"Wes. Wes, it's me." Angel's
gentle voice reaches him. Angel has stopped, barely inside, and his
hands slide soft down Wesley's back. "Wes, it's okay."
Wes reaches back, one hand flailing,
and Angel catches it in his own, weaves his fingers between Wesley's.
They are both still for a time. Wes makes his breathing slow down,
makes himself remember exactly where he is, who he's with. Angel's
free hand strokes him, soothing, and finally Wes lets go, lets his body loosen
and relax.
"Are you okay?" Angel finally says.
"We can stop. It's okay. Just tell me."
"No." He's certain of this.
There's no question in his mind. He will not let his father control
him, not now, not here. "I'm all right."
Angel still waits a bit longer, caressing
him, before he starts to ease in again. Wes relaxes into it and it's
okay now. A little at a time, slowly, more oil, a little deeper, until
Angel's sheathed and Wes is ready. The deep sensation of penetration
fills him, hot and intense, and now it's just he and Angel, sharing this,
and everything else is gone.
Angel seems to realize this, and moves
inside him, slowly at first, then faster. Wes is starting to get the
hang of it, too, starting to understand his body's own signals. So
he knows when it's okay to shove back hard into Angel, to take him in deep,
and Angel answers his signals until he is, as promised, fucking Wes silly.
Wes is gasping and clutching the desk,
his eyes watering from the intensity. He's hard again, though he's
almost positive he's not going to be able to come again this soon, but it
doesn't matter. This is just good, so damn good, Angel so deep inside,
humping him hard.
Then, unexpectedly, Angel slides his
arms under Wesley's chest, drawing him up from the desk. Angel's still
inside him, still fucking him, but he slowly, carefully aligns Wes against
him and holds him. He nuzzles into Wes' neck, his hands slide down
Wes's belly, cup his scrotum, slip down his half-erection. Wes loses
himself to all of it, lets his head fall back against Angel's shoulder as
his body produces about three-quarters of an orgasm.
Angel clutches him tight, then, and
comes, a sound wrenching out of his throat that sounds almost like a sob.
He cradles Wes against him, clings to him, and when he's finished he just
holds him there, his hands clutching, until finally, gently, he eases himself
away and out.
And, strangely, goes to the floor behind
Wesley, catching his hand on the way, pulling Wes down with him.
Wes turns toward him, concerned.
"Angel..."
But Angel just draws him in, cradles
him. Wes returns the embrace, sensing that Angel needs this, that it's
more than lust or desire. It's purely a need for human contact, to
touch and be touched, to feel a warm body.
Angel holds him for a time, half in
his lap. Wes is just beginning to get used to the embrace when Angel
says, "Stay tonight. Would you?"
"Of course," says Wes.
Upstairs, they shower, separately and
quickly. Wes is relieved Angel didn't suggest they shower together,
but a little disappointed, as well. He takes a little longer in the
shower than Angel did; most of the contents of the bottle of olive oil is
either on him or inside him. It comes off easily with soap and warm
water.
Toweling off, he comes out of the bathroom
to see Angel already in bed. He's lying on his back, staring at the
ceiling. As Wes emerges, Angel turns to look at him.
He says nothing, though. Wes has put
his underwear back on, and he goes to the other side of the bed, climbs under
the covers.
Angel moves across the bed to him,
and Wes allows himself to be held. Angel spoons against his back, burying
his face in Wes' shoulder.
"I never remember how much I miss it
until I get it," Angel says quietly. "How much I need it. Not
just the sex. Just...contact. You know?"
Wes says nothing. Angel is holding
him; his hands are splayed on Wes' stomach, and he lets himself caress one
of them. Angel's hands are big and well-made. Wes traces a vein
across the back of his hand, up to where it snakes around a knuckle.
He feels Angel's face shift against his shoulder, feels his lips soft on
the side of his throat.
"Thank you," Angel says. The
words are profound in their softness, their sincerity. Wes is touched.
Then he wonders why he's so touched, wonders why he's lying here in Angel's
bed when he could be at home asleep in his own.
"You're thinking again," Angel says.
"What are you thinking about?"
"Just wondering what this means."
His fingers move over Angel's wrist, toy with the brown hair that covers
his forearm.
"It doesn't have to mean anything."
Wesley flinches. "I know," he
says, to cover the reaction. "Just a casual shag."
"That's not what I meant. I know
what's running through your head. You're wondering if this means you're
gay, or at the very least what it says about you that you're here.
You're wondering what Cordelia would think, what your family might say.
I'm saying none of that matters. This is just you and me, these moments,
these situations. It doesn't have to mean anything beyond that."
"So...I don't have to buy you anything
for Valentine's Day?"
Angel chuckles. "I could use
some socks. Black."
"That goes without saying."
Wes closes his eyes, finally relaxing
in Angel's arms. Angel's fingers move soft against his stomach, caressing
absently. His chest is hard and solid against Wesley's back, and Wes
feels safe here. Protected.
"Maybe we shouldn't tell Cordy, though,"
Angel says.
Wes has no objection to this, but asks,
"Why not?"
"Well, she's the only girl in the office,
and if we're having sex with each other, that might make her feel bad."
Angel's joking. Which is a rare
thing, and it makes Wes smile. "Yes, perhaps that would hurt her feelings
a bit. She is, after all, a vain creature of delicate ego."
Angel snorts. His embrace tightens
a little as he snuggles--there's no other word for it, really--closer to
Wes. "Do you remember the first time we met?"
"Yes, I do, actually. Neither
you nor Buffy had the courtesy to introduce us, and you were quite rude."
"And then I saved your sorry ass."
He nibbles the back of Wesley's ear. "You were pathetic."
"I was. I really was."
He still is, he thinks, in more ways than one. But right here, right
now, he doesn't feel that way. "Do you still miss her?"
"I do. Every day." He's
quiet a moment, and Wes can feel his nose against the back of his ear.
"I thought it would go away, or at least get better. But it hasn't."
Wes doesn't know what to say to this.
"I'm sorry," he finally ventures, and Angel makes a breathy sound of acknowledgement.
"You probably want to sleep," Angel
says.
"Perhaps a little. It would be
helpful, I suppose."
"I can leave if you like."
"No." He's used to falling asleep
alone, but right now the thought of Angel's leaving hurts a little.
"It's all right. I can sleep."
"Okay."
Angel settles down, utterly still,
his body warming a little, taking in the heat from Wesley's own. He
still holds Wes, his strong arms loose and heavy. Wes closes his eyes
and, somewhat to his own surprise, falls asleep almost immediately.
#
Angel's bedroom is, of course, windowless,
but enough light comes in from the balcony to awaken Wes once morning has
gotten underway. He lies there for a time, staring at Angel.
Angel has rolled away from him, and now lies with his back to Wes.
Wes just takes him in--the wide, pockmarked shoulders, the graceful curves
of scapula, the black tattoo.
Wes has never thought of another man
as attractive before. He likes the soft delicacy of women, the curves
and smallness. But this, Angel's back, is beautiful. He's not
sure why.
Wes needs more sleep. There's
no question about that. Still, he's tempted to wake Angel up for another
good roll. He's going to get addicted to this if he's not careful.
So he gets out of bed, gathers his
clothes from the pile where he dumped them last night. Early this morning,
actually. Only a few hours ago. He smiles a little as Angel rolls
onto his back. He's still asleep, and settles back into stillness.
Wes gets dressed and heads downstairs.
He vaguely remembers leaving his glasses on the reception counter.
He needs to head home, pick up a few more books, maybe grab a nap.
He actually feels a little guilty about leaving Angel alone in bed, but he
knows Angel will understand.
Downstairs, he hears Cordelia in the
office, puttering. He retrieves his glasses and goes in to say hi.
"Wes," she says. "You're here
early."
"It was a late research night.
I decided to stay here."
Cordelia nods. "Handy thing about
having a hotel, huh? Room for everybody."
"That's right." Wes is nonchalant.
Cordelia shuffles some papers.
"God," she says. "Why the hell is there olive oil all over the desk?"
"I have no idea," Wes says, fighting
laughter. "I'm going out. Can I get you some coffee?"
END.
