Untitled Historical Smut
by Wiseacress
Aus/Wm
NC-17
A/N: It makes most sense if read as an outtake from the time period between Coquette's stories A Winter's Tale and Temper. Though God knows you don't have to read all that first.
Then he was sitting up, bolt upright, his face stiff with demon, and breathing in gasps.
It took a minute to sort things out. The little brown landscape on the far wall, the scab-coloured chiffonier that took up most of the room. The warm air in the window, balanced placidly at noon. All of it transient, rented, and unfamiliar. Even the smells. Where now? Kettering? He had no idea. His hands hurt.
He looked down and began carefully to unclench his fingers from the sheet. Beside him, Angelus shifted.
“Again?”
He nodded without looking up, and quickly dropped demon face. Some part of his brain whispered, Yes sir, and he bared a tooth at it. His lip was trembling almost as much as his hands.
Angelus sighed, then raised his hands over his head and stretched full length, longer almost than the bed would allow. His chest was a barrel, his ribcage lifted tight against the skin. His knuckles brushed the wall above the headboard. The footboard groaned and cracked.
Will took a last uneven breath, swallowed, and tried to sit up straighter. That was stupid; he shouldn’t be sitting up at all. It was the middle of the day, he should be asleep. He closed his eyes experimentally and saw a dumb, blasted face roped with scars. There was a cold pressure at his forehead, and the stink of powder. He opened his eyes again quickly.
Angelus’s arm curled round his waist from behind, and then the other dropped in his lap, the fingers lacing clumsily at his hip. “Lie down,” he murmured. His eyes were closed, his face half-buried in the pillow. Will manoeuvred himself down the bed a few inches and lay back, thinking, Idiot. God, useless idiot.
Angelus’s arms gathered him in, and one of Angelus’s legs dropped heavy over his waist. He was pressed to Angelus’s chest, Angelus’s belly and groin, and there were cool lips against his ear.
“Tell me.”
It was too pathetic. Too feeble and womanish, still to be dreaming like this. If he had to dream of it, he should dream of gutting the bastard, or of Angelus snapping his neck and stamping on his corpse. As he’d done. At times, it was a comfort to think back on that. Other times, no comfort at all.
He shook his head and tried to smile, staring at the ceiling. “It’s just the same,” he said. No sir, not now. Angelus hadn’t been standing on ceremony lately. “I bloody wish—”
He left off, realizing he’d begun to shake. That was mortifying, and he tried to bend out of Angelus’s arms. Angelus’s grip tightened, as he’d known it would.
“Tell me anyway,” Angelus said, sounding more alert, but not yet annoyed. “Stop that.” He tipped his head forward and nipped Will’s neck. “Lie still. And tell it to me.”
Like a bloody fairy tale, Will thought. Where was Dru? She and Darla had the next room over; if he concentrated, perhaps he’d be able to smell her. He hadn’t confessed his dreams to her in weeks, not since the first time, when he was preoccupied with his own fading terror and made the mistake of honesty. It sent her into fits, all about his head. His head cut apart and loaded with springs like a clock, made to keep the wrong time. Angelus had had to lie on her to shut her up. They’d been in a train carriage, on their way to Tunbridge Wells. He had not been amused.
He couldn’t smell Dru; all he could smell was smoke, blood, sleep, Sire. That smell he could never really describe to himself, because it was an absolute, and because lately it seemed it was all he ever breathed. Angelus’s hand took hold of his chin and turned his head.
“You’re going deaf,” he observed mildly. “Perhaps a knock on the ear—?”
“It’s the same,” Will said quickly. “That bastard has the popgun to my head, and—” He paused. “Pop.” His mouth tasted strange, metallic. “And that thing we saw in Cheapside, I keep seeing that.”
Angelus’s lips grazed his jaw. “The one that had been shot.”
“Yeh.” He lifted a hand and started to work at a thumbnail, then remembered and dropped it. “That’s the one.”
“I staked it,” Angelus reminded him.
“Yeh. I know.”
Angelus regarded him levelly. His face was still pressed with sleep, but his eyes were dark and measuring. “What would you do,” he said, “if you met another like him?”
Will blinked. “Another—how do you mean?”
“Another one with a gun.”
Will hesitated. Run, he almost said. But that couldn’t be the right answer. Humans were prey; you didn’t run from prey. You thought around it, ran it to ground, and ate it. You couldn’t start worrying about whether it might kick you in the process. That was just feeble.
“I’d…kill him,” he said uncertainly. Angelus’s face didn’t change, but his thumb moved down Will’s jaw and pressed gently against his throat. Will resisted the impulse to let his head drop back.
“How would you kill him?”
“I’d do him before he had a chance to aim. I’d break his arm and tear his throat out.”
Angelus’s thumb stroked a slow line down his throat, and again Will’s eyes wanted to close. He raised his own hand and touched Angelus’s chest lightly. “I’m fast enough,” he said. “I’d be all right.”
“Do you think so?” Angelus was still studying him, his eyes unreadable, his thumb a distraction. Will swallowed, thinking of his dream: the flash, the simultaneous sting of powder in the air, the violent red-black shove between his eyes. It had all happened at once, before he’d even had the chance to reach out.
“Yeh.” He sounded unconvincing even to himself, and he frowned. “I’m fast enough,” he repeated. “I wish I’d had a chance at that one. I’d have—”
Angelus’s thumb sank into the hollow of his throat, and he coughed. Then Angelus’s palm was flat on his neck, gentle and cool, just grazing the skin. He couldn’t help it; he lifted his chin and closed his eyes and stopped thinking. The hell with the lesson, whatever it was. He’d stopped trembling, and with Angelus’s arm still about him, Angelus’s hand on his shoulder and neck, he could close his eyes and see nothing more than darkness.
“My boy,” Angelus whispered, and Will opened his eyes just as Angelus’s palm caught his chin and pressed it farther up, until he was taut as a wire from stem to stern, blinded by the sheet. He felt a surge of panic and tried to speak, but his throat wouldn’t work. With one hand, he batted at Angelus’s shoulder.
“My liking,” Angelus said softly, catching his hand and rubbing a circle in the palm. “My own boy. You aren’t half what you think you are.”
He tried to snatch his hand away, but Angelus kept hold of it, and when he twisted to bring the other up, his chin was thrust back sharply. He let his arms fall limp and tried again to say something. His throat clicked. Angelus’s leg curled tighter round him and rocked him slightly.
“Lie still,” Angelus said, and Will closed his eyes and tried to make himself limp and amenable. One of Angelus’s fingers brushed his lips, and he opened his mouth. Angelus tasted of cigar smoke and Darla’s perfume and Sire, elusive and maddening. Will found himself licking at it, messily and without reserve. He had an erection now, embarrassing as that was.
“You flinched the other night,” Angelus said in a musing tone. “When we took those sweeps.” He leaned forward, and his tongue ran cool and wet from Will’s collarbone to his ear. Will held as still as he could. “Darla’s worried about you. She’s afraid you’ve been shaken. I told her not to be ridiculous.” His teeth were wet and cool on Will’s jawline, just below his ear. “You’ve had a scare, that’s all. We’ve all had a scare.”
Will tried to free his hand from Angelus’s, and his fingers were crushed tighter. His back ached and trembled. If Angelus pushed any harder, he’d break in half.
“Lie still,” Angelus repeated, and closed his teeth around Will’s throat. Will’s cock leapt. He made a strangled glottal sound and fought again for his hand, ignoring the white sparks as Angelus tightened his hold. Angelus’s cock was pressed rigid against Will’s thigh, and his teeth were hard and flat around Will’s windpipe. It wasn’t a killing bite, or a feeding bite. It was almost an embrace, and after a few seconds Will found himself pressing desperately up into it.
Angelus bit harder, and Will’s hips twitched futilely. If he could have spoken, he would have begged. Angelus’s hand cupped his chin, and three fingers slid into his mouth. He couldn’t suck, his throat was too stretched. He had the taste anyway, all through his head like darkness, and it made him arch harder, trembling, until he heard his sternum crack in protest.
Angelus lifted his head at the sound, and for a long minute Will lay blind and shaking, knowing that Angelus was simply looking him over. The knowledge made him even needier. He licked at Angelus’s fingers and made a low sound in his throat. Immediately it struck him as unbearably servile, and he began struggling to free his head.
Angelus let him do it a minute, then pulled him close and inhaled at his side of his neck. “Darling,” he said, and took another deep breath. “If that prick had taken you—”
His voice was rough, and Will stopped struggling. Angelus’s hand let go of his chin, and after a cautious pause he lowered it. His neck popped, and he winced. He could still feel Angelus’s teeth around his throat, and now that the strain was off his torso, he felt strangely slack and weak.
He swallowed as an experiment, found that he still could, and looked at Angelus. The expression on Angelus’s face was startling. He was staring at Will with something almost like fear; and perhaps there was some fear in it, because he thought he could catch a thread of that in the air. It was a hard bare urgent look, impossible to divine, as if he might reach out and stroke Will gently, touch his hair and kiss him, or roll onto him and, without ceremony, drain him.
Will tried to smile, and raised his aching hand to Angelus’s shoulder. “Well, he didn’t,” he said. “It was just a scare, that’s all.”
Angelus glanced down at Will’s hand, and Will had a bad moment, certain he’d done the wrong thing. Then Angelus looked up, and gave him a slight smile.
“You’re good at this,” he said quietly, as if speaking to himself.
Good at what? Will wanted to ask, but before he could, Angelus leaned forward and kissed him. The taste drove everything else out of his mind. Without meaning to, he pressed forward with his whole body, his mouth, his cock, everything importuning. He wanted more of the taste, more of the darkness. Angelus’s tongue pushed past his lips and he sucked at it eagerly, making that same servile sound and knowing he ought to hate it. Angelus’s hands grappled for his hips and yanked them forward. He bit Will’s tongue and pushed his face away, braced a hand on the small of his back, and ground their cocks together. His eyes were black as gun bores, fixed on Will’s face.
Will closed his eyes and gave himself over to the hard rocking, the rough hands on his shoulder and hip, the smell of urgency like a flame catching. Angelus leaned forward and whispered, “Darling,” and he felt something leashed jump sharply inside him, so hard it hurt. Angelus kissed his forehead, square in the centre where the barrel had pressed, and rolled them. Will’s legs fell apart and Angelus lifted and held him for the inevitable moment of suspension, his fingers searching. Then they were in him, opening him, and Angelus’s lip lifted in an unconscious, silent snarl, and Will braced himself.
He closed his eyes and grabbed the sheet with both fists, but still he couldn’t keep quiet. It ripped a whimper out of him. That was shameful, but Angelus didn’t seem to notice. For a minute he had one hand on Will’s shoulder and the other between his legs, guiding. Then he’d shoved completely in, and had locked his hands behind Will’s neck, yanking and snarling aloud. The bed shuddered and banged, and Will snapped his teeth and threw his head back to bare his neck and blind himself. Angelus gasped. His hips worked harder, his feet braced on the footboard.
Will bit his lip to blood to keep silent, his hands on Angelus’s shoulders in something between embrace and resistance. He felt burnt, threshed, his spine a wreck. He could smell his own blood, and that made him helplessly harder. He couldn’t bear it much longer, and he couldn’t bear for it to stop. Every part of him was straining up, rigid and entreating.
Abruptly, Angelus stopped moving. Will opened his eyes. Angelus was staring down at him with that same intense, foreign expression, and there was a curl of fear in the air again, under the fog of lust. Will blinked and tried to think past the searing pain in his spine.
“What’s—” he started.
“I love you,” Angelus said hoarsely.
Will stared. He couldn’t think at all. After a moment, he had to swallow the blood that was filling his mouth.
“I won’t lose you,” Angelus said. “Any of you. You’re mine. Always. I’ll always—” He broke off and raised a shaking hand from Will’s shoulder to wipe the blood from his lip. “God, I couldn’t stand to lose you.”
“No,” Will said stupidly. “You haven’t, I’m right here—”
Angelus grabbed him and thrust into him again, so hard and suddenly that he cried out before he could stop himself. That made Angelus thrust even harder, the pain so sharp now it was frightening, and he tried in terror to get free. Angelus pinned him, watched him fight with a dazed and remote expression, and only closed his eyes when he came.
He dropped down on top of Will with his eyes still closed, one hand slipping down to trace in the blood between Will’s thighs. He was lax and heavy, and he smelled like repletion.
Will lay with his eyes on the ceiling, waiting for the pain to fade. He felt numb and slightly confused. He was still hard and he should finish, but he couldn’t find the energy to move. And Angelus’s weight was a comfort.
After a while, Angelus’s tongue started on his neck, and he closed his eyes. There was no gun there. No shambling eyesore. He was whole, he was sound, and he hadn’t been shaken. He was Angelus’s boy, and loved.
------End
Feedback
by Wiseacress
Aus/Wm
NC-17
A/N: It makes most sense if read as an outtake from the time period between Coquette's stories A Winter's Tale and Temper. Though God knows you don't have to read all that first.
Then he was sitting up, bolt upright, his face stiff with demon, and breathing in gasps.
It took a minute to sort things out. The little brown landscape on the far wall, the scab-coloured chiffonier that took up most of the room. The warm air in the window, balanced placidly at noon. All of it transient, rented, and unfamiliar. Even the smells. Where now? Kettering? He had no idea. His hands hurt.
He looked down and began carefully to unclench his fingers from the sheet. Beside him, Angelus shifted.
“Again?”
He nodded without looking up, and quickly dropped demon face. Some part of his brain whispered, Yes sir, and he bared a tooth at it. His lip was trembling almost as much as his hands.
Angelus sighed, then raised his hands over his head and stretched full length, longer almost than the bed would allow. His chest was a barrel, his ribcage lifted tight against the skin. His knuckles brushed the wall above the headboard. The footboard groaned and cracked.
Will took a last uneven breath, swallowed, and tried to sit up straighter. That was stupid; he shouldn’t be sitting up at all. It was the middle of the day, he should be asleep. He closed his eyes experimentally and saw a dumb, blasted face roped with scars. There was a cold pressure at his forehead, and the stink of powder. He opened his eyes again quickly.
Angelus’s arm curled round his waist from behind, and then the other dropped in his lap, the fingers lacing clumsily at his hip. “Lie down,” he murmured. His eyes were closed, his face half-buried in the pillow. Will manoeuvred himself down the bed a few inches and lay back, thinking, Idiot. God, useless idiot.
Angelus’s arms gathered him in, and one of Angelus’s legs dropped heavy over his waist. He was pressed to Angelus’s chest, Angelus’s belly and groin, and there were cool lips against his ear.
“Tell me.”
It was too pathetic. Too feeble and womanish, still to be dreaming like this. If he had to dream of it, he should dream of gutting the bastard, or of Angelus snapping his neck and stamping on his corpse. As he’d done. At times, it was a comfort to think back on that. Other times, no comfort at all.
He shook his head and tried to smile, staring at the ceiling. “It’s just the same,” he said. No sir, not now. Angelus hadn’t been standing on ceremony lately. “I bloody wish—”
He left off, realizing he’d begun to shake. That was mortifying, and he tried to bend out of Angelus’s arms. Angelus’s grip tightened, as he’d known it would.
“Tell me anyway,” Angelus said, sounding more alert, but not yet annoyed. “Stop that.” He tipped his head forward and nipped Will’s neck. “Lie still. And tell it to me.”
Like a bloody fairy tale, Will thought. Where was Dru? She and Darla had the next room over; if he concentrated, perhaps he’d be able to smell her. He hadn’t confessed his dreams to her in weeks, not since the first time, when he was preoccupied with his own fading terror and made the mistake of honesty. It sent her into fits, all about his head. His head cut apart and loaded with springs like a clock, made to keep the wrong time. Angelus had had to lie on her to shut her up. They’d been in a train carriage, on their way to Tunbridge Wells. He had not been amused.
He couldn’t smell Dru; all he could smell was smoke, blood, sleep, Sire. That smell he could never really describe to himself, because it was an absolute, and because lately it seemed it was all he ever breathed. Angelus’s hand took hold of his chin and turned his head.
“You’re going deaf,” he observed mildly. “Perhaps a knock on the ear—?”
“It’s the same,” Will said quickly. “That bastard has the popgun to my head, and—” He paused. “Pop.” His mouth tasted strange, metallic. “And that thing we saw in Cheapside, I keep seeing that.”
Angelus’s lips grazed his jaw. “The one that had been shot.”
“Yeh.” He lifted a hand and started to work at a thumbnail, then remembered and dropped it. “That’s the one.”
“I staked it,” Angelus reminded him.
“Yeh. I know.”
Angelus regarded him levelly. His face was still pressed with sleep, but his eyes were dark and measuring. “What would you do,” he said, “if you met another like him?”
Will blinked. “Another—how do you mean?”
“Another one with a gun.”
Will hesitated. Run, he almost said. But that couldn’t be the right answer. Humans were prey; you didn’t run from prey. You thought around it, ran it to ground, and ate it. You couldn’t start worrying about whether it might kick you in the process. That was just feeble.
“I’d…kill him,” he said uncertainly. Angelus’s face didn’t change, but his thumb moved down Will’s jaw and pressed gently against his throat. Will resisted the impulse to let his head drop back.
“How would you kill him?”
“I’d do him before he had a chance to aim. I’d break his arm and tear his throat out.”
Angelus’s thumb stroked a slow line down his throat, and again Will’s eyes wanted to close. He raised his own hand and touched Angelus’s chest lightly. “I’m fast enough,” he said. “I’d be all right.”
“Do you think so?” Angelus was still studying him, his eyes unreadable, his thumb a distraction. Will swallowed, thinking of his dream: the flash, the simultaneous sting of powder in the air, the violent red-black shove between his eyes. It had all happened at once, before he’d even had the chance to reach out.
“Yeh.” He sounded unconvincing even to himself, and he frowned. “I’m fast enough,” he repeated. “I wish I’d had a chance at that one. I’d have—”
Angelus’s thumb sank into the hollow of his throat, and he coughed. Then Angelus’s palm was flat on his neck, gentle and cool, just grazing the skin. He couldn’t help it; he lifted his chin and closed his eyes and stopped thinking. The hell with the lesson, whatever it was. He’d stopped trembling, and with Angelus’s arm still about him, Angelus’s hand on his shoulder and neck, he could close his eyes and see nothing more than darkness.
“My boy,” Angelus whispered, and Will opened his eyes just as Angelus’s palm caught his chin and pressed it farther up, until he was taut as a wire from stem to stern, blinded by the sheet. He felt a surge of panic and tried to speak, but his throat wouldn’t work. With one hand, he batted at Angelus’s shoulder.
“My liking,” Angelus said softly, catching his hand and rubbing a circle in the palm. “My own boy. You aren’t half what you think you are.”
He tried to snatch his hand away, but Angelus kept hold of it, and when he twisted to bring the other up, his chin was thrust back sharply. He let his arms fall limp and tried again to say something. His throat clicked. Angelus’s leg curled tighter round him and rocked him slightly.
“Lie still,” Angelus said, and Will closed his eyes and tried to make himself limp and amenable. One of Angelus’s fingers brushed his lips, and he opened his mouth. Angelus tasted of cigar smoke and Darla’s perfume and Sire, elusive and maddening. Will found himself licking at it, messily and without reserve. He had an erection now, embarrassing as that was.
“You flinched the other night,” Angelus said in a musing tone. “When we took those sweeps.” He leaned forward, and his tongue ran cool and wet from Will’s collarbone to his ear. Will held as still as he could. “Darla’s worried about you. She’s afraid you’ve been shaken. I told her not to be ridiculous.” His teeth were wet and cool on Will’s jawline, just below his ear. “You’ve had a scare, that’s all. We’ve all had a scare.”
Will tried to free his hand from Angelus’s, and his fingers were crushed tighter. His back ached and trembled. If Angelus pushed any harder, he’d break in half.
“Lie still,” Angelus repeated, and closed his teeth around Will’s throat. Will’s cock leapt. He made a strangled glottal sound and fought again for his hand, ignoring the white sparks as Angelus tightened his hold. Angelus’s cock was pressed rigid against Will’s thigh, and his teeth were hard and flat around Will’s windpipe. It wasn’t a killing bite, or a feeding bite. It was almost an embrace, and after a few seconds Will found himself pressing desperately up into it.
Angelus bit harder, and Will’s hips twitched futilely. If he could have spoken, he would have begged. Angelus’s hand cupped his chin, and three fingers slid into his mouth. He couldn’t suck, his throat was too stretched. He had the taste anyway, all through his head like darkness, and it made him arch harder, trembling, until he heard his sternum crack in protest.
Angelus lifted his head at the sound, and for a long minute Will lay blind and shaking, knowing that Angelus was simply looking him over. The knowledge made him even needier. He licked at Angelus’s fingers and made a low sound in his throat. Immediately it struck him as unbearably servile, and he began struggling to free his head.
Angelus let him do it a minute, then pulled him close and inhaled at his side of his neck. “Darling,” he said, and took another deep breath. “If that prick had taken you—”
His voice was rough, and Will stopped struggling. Angelus’s hand let go of his chin, and after a cautious pause he lowered it. His neck popped, and he winced. He could still feel Angelus’s teeth around his throat, and now that the strain was off his torso, he felt strangely slack and weak.
He swallowed as an experiment, found that he still could, and looked at Angelus. The expression on Angelus’s face was startling. He was staring at Will with something almost like fear; and perhaps there was some fear in it, because he thought he could catch a thread of that in the air. It was a hard bare urgent look, impossible to divine, as if he might reach out and stroke Will gently, touch his hair and kiss him, or roll onto him and, without ceremony, drain him.
Will tried to smile, and raised his aching hand to Angelus’s shoulder. “Well, he didn’t,” he said. “It was just a scare, that’s all.”
Angelus glanced down at Will’s hand, and Will had a bad moment, certain he’d done the wrong thing. Then Angelus looked up, and gave him a slight smile.
“You’re good at this,” he said quietly, as if speaking to himself.
Good at what? Will wanted to ask, but before he could, Angelus leaned forward and kissed him. The taste drove everything else out of his mind. Without meaning to, he pressed forward with his whole body, his mouth, his cock, everything importuning. He wanted more of the taste, more of the darkness. Angelus’s tongue pushed past his lips and he sucked at it eagerly, making that same servile sound and knowing he ought to hate it. Angelus’s hands grappled for his hips and yanked them forward. He bit Will’s tongue and pushed his face away, braced a hand on the small of his back, and ground their cocks together. His eyes were black as gun bores, fixed on Will’s face.
Will closed his eyes and gave himself over to the hard rocking, the rough hands on his shoulder and hip, the smell of urgency like a flame catching. Angelus leaned forward and whispered, “Darling,” and he felt something leashed jump sharply inside him, so hard it hurt. Angelus kissed his forehead, square in the centre where the barrel had pressed, and rolled them. Will’s legs fell apart and Angelus lifted and held him for the inevitable moment of suspension, his fingers searching. Then they were in him, opening him, and Angelus’s lip lifted in an unconscious, silent snarl, and Will braced himself.
He closed his eyes and grabbed the sheet with both fists, but still he couldn’t keep quiet. It ripped a whimper out of him. That was shameful, but Angelus didn’t seem to notice. For a minute he had one hand on Will’s shoulder and the other between his legs, guiding. Then he’d shoved completely in, and had locked his hands behind Will’s neck, yanking and snarling aloud. The bed shuddered and banged, and Will snapped his teeth and threw his head back to bare his neck and blind himself. Angelus gasped. His hips worked harder, his feet braced on the footboard.
Will bit his lip to blood to keep silent, his hands on Angelus’s shoulders in something between embrace and resistance. He felt burnt, threshed, his spine a wreck. He could smell his own blood, and that made him helplessly harder. He couldn’t bear it much longer, and he couldn’t bear for it to stop. Every part of him was straining up, rigid and entreating.
Abruptly, Angelus stopped moving. Will opened his eyes. Angelus was staring down at him with that same intense, foreign expression, and there was a curl of fear in the air again, under the fog of lust. Will blinked and tried to think past the searing pain in his spine.
“What’s—” he started.
“I love you,” Angelus said hoarsely.
Will stared. He couldn’t think at all. After a moment, he had to swallow the blood that was filling his mouth.
“I won’t lose you,” Angelus said. “Any of you. You’re mine. Always. I’ll always—” He broke off and raised a shaking hand from Will’s shoulder to wipe the blood from his lip. “God, I couldn’t stand to lose you.”
“No,” Will said stupidly. “You haven’t, I’m right here—”
Angelus grabbed him and thrust into him again, so hard and suddenly that he cried out before he could stop himself. That made Angelus thrust even harder, the pain so sharp now it was frightening, and he tried in terror to get free. Angelus pinned him, watched him fight with a dazed and remote expression, and only closed his eyes when he came.
He dropped down on top of Will with his eyes still closed, one hand slipping down to trace in the blood between Will’s thighs. He was lax and heavy, and he smelled like repletion.
Will lay with his eyes on the ceiling, waiting for the pain to fade. He felt numb and slightly confused. He was still hard and he should finish, but he couldn’t find the energy to move. And Angelus’s weight was a comfort.
After a while, Angelus’s tongue started on his neck, and he closed his eyes. There was no gun there. No shambling eyesore. He was whole, he was sound, and he hadn’t been shaken. He was Angelus’s boy, and loved.
------End
Feedback