by Jennifer-Oksana (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Summary: Moderation is a memory/Dive right in and let him send me/I could take this in doses large enough to kill-- (Angel/Wesley, slash, sequel to "The Kind of Thing They Ban")
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, FOX, and the WB own the copyright to Angel and its characters. No infringement intended. Summary from Liz Phair's song, "Johnny Feelgood" which I also don't own.
Dammit, but Wesley's dangerous to fuck. It's something in his eyes, or something in his posture, or in the desperate notes his voice strikes when he wants it bad. My brain and all my good intentions melt into oblivion and I'm left with a hard dick and nothing to hold me back from tearing him in two, except maybe the pleasure of having him again.
I put my head on his chest and look at him. There's something intensely satisfying about a Wes who's too blissed out to talk or bitch or nag. He's like a puppy right now--or maybe a sleepy child. I have made him come and he's very, very pleased about that. He has a half-smile on his face. Mm. Pretty Wesley lips. Mine to play with.
"Wesley," I whisper into his ear, letting my tongue flick his earlobe. "Don't go to sleep, Wes."
He makes a little groany moan sound that hits me direct in the spine. Oh, fuck, I want this pretty, skinny little bastard. I want to bite through his lips--and not for the blood, though I wouldn't complain at getting a little more blood from my Englishman. Just for the feeling of having those lips exactly where I want them.
"It's my turn," I tell him, running one hand over his hip. "Wake up, Wes."
He opens his eyes, which are glittering with warmth. Besides that, he also has that smug look that the recently laid always wear.
"Mmmm," he says, reaching over and brushing his hand across my face. He's still sleepy. "Angel."
"Yes, I would be Angel. And you're not playing properly," I say, smooshing his face and lips with my hand.
"Son of a bitch," he moans, arching upwards and yawning. "You're dreadfully needy."
I lean over and kiss his whining (yet delicious) mouth and he immediately stops the bitching and wraps his arms around my neck. I keep sliding my teeth across his lower lip, pulling it into my mouth, feeling the blood underneath.
He's so warm. A little bit thin, but there's something to be said for a frame that's all angles and lean muscle. I nudge his thighs apart with my knee and settle in for a long, slow set of hungry kisses. I didn't think I had this much waiting inside me, but when I get to feel this warmth and this lean, tight body underneath mine--mmm.
Again with the grunting. But I don't want to think. I want to take and feel and enjoy. I growl into his throat and slide my hand down the plane of his stomach. He laughs a little. Nice laugh, not nervous at all. Amused, but not nervous.
"I like that you're warm," I tell his chest.
"You always say that," he reminds me archly.
"Always mean it, too," I reply, resting my hand on his thigh. Post-coital, Wes is always so damn coy. He has to know how hard I am and how polite I'm being. I'm getting tired of polite. Almost ready to flip him over and make him hurt.
He strokes me, and that wicked glow fills his eyes again. I know that glow too well these days.
"Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?" he asks in his come-fuck-me-NOW voice. Then he arches his hips.
He wants me to hurt him, but he's the one who gets off on pain. Not me. I'm here for the sensation and for the heat. And he's hot.
"You," I hiss as I pull away and rummage through my convenient little bedside drawer. When one is entertaining guests, it's only right to have all the necessities around. "Are. A. Total. Bastard."
He blows me a sneering little kiss. It's rich, as rich as wedding cake, as rich as those suits he used to own as a preening little Watcher, because when he needs it, he'd promise you his firstborn and mean it.
Oh, I'm going to make him hurt.
I pull his warm and willing body against me, my arm across his chest. He breathes out slowly, stretching against me. He feels good. Very, very good. I want to tear him in two. Instead, I find all my little tools and toys that make keeping Wes around much, much easier. After all, I could make it hurt, but then he'd never come back, and there's something to be said about having a lover who moans like you're the Second Coming when you're inside him.
I slick up my fingers and run them around there--and there--and he starts to do that throaty, wicked moan he does when he really, really wants to be fucked. It makes it hard to concentrate on what I'm doing, but never let it be said that I try to hurt my toys.
Except when they ask.
"Not so smug now, are you?" I whisper, practically hurting myself to have my arm across his throat and my lips pressed to his ear. His arms are pulled back by my other arm and the dark part of me likes feeling his helpless, warm, needy body pinned against mine.
It would be easy to do whatever I wanted to him right now. But I don't need to take. Wes is a giver.
"No--God--Angel," he gasps again. Little slut. You'd think he would be content with his earlier orgasm, but oh, no. I recognize the movement of his hips, the way he's shimmying. He wants more.
I slam him down on the bed and thrust inside. He screams. But it's a good scream. I know the difference. I rock back and slam into him again and the scream eases off, becomes a moan. I bite into his shoulder and thrust again.
I lose count. The world becomes nothing more than Wesley moaning and the fight to keep my teeth out of his neck. He feels so good. He smells like heaven. My tongue keeps flicking out on his shoulder, his neck, his back.
My demon side keeps whispering that a little taste wouldn't hurt.
"God," Wesley gasps. "Don't ever stop. Ever."
It's good to be undead once in a while. I start slamming against him hard. His gasp turns back into a wail of sorts.
I can hold out forever when I think of how much I like this, the moans and the sweet hot feel of man against demon-man and I sort of roll us sideways, completely lost in the motion of fucking Wesley.
oh. fuck. yes.
When I come, my mind is gone. As it should be. I barely notice that my hand and his hand are on him, finishing him off. He makes some sort of noise, a hoarse sound, and then he practically collapses, sweaty and exhausted and definitely done.
His throat is throbbing with blood. I can smell it and the room's thick with sex and sweat. I can smell his blood. I want it bad. I want to nip at his skin, open a tiny vein, and taste that sweet salty taste. But I know I won't stop if I do.
The thought of his blood in my mouth will not go away.
He has to get out of here.
"Wes," I say.
"Ohhh," he whimpers.
"You gotta go," I say. "Take a shower, go downstairs. But you gotta go."
He pouts, but when he sees whatever he sees (bloodlust? fear?) in my eyes, he immediately wakes up a little more, rouses himself from his post-coital exhaustion.
"All right," he says hoarsely. "Does the room on the third floor still have that working shower?"
"Yeah," I say, holding myself back. I want him with every demon cell in my body. He's so warm and wet and human--
The door slams. He's gone.
I stare at the blistered paint on the back of the door and convince myself not to follow.
Feedback is fun. email@example.com
"I'm blaming it on the bossa nova!"
Visit my domain: http://www.imjustsayin.net
|Home/QuickSearch + Random + Upload + Search + Contact + GO List|