Cold Comfort
Angel has no idea why Wesley's kisses feel like snowflakes, feathery and light.
Wesley is kissing Angel's neck, nibbling on Angel's throat with blunt human teeth. His hands slide over his fully clad body, almost but not quite touching him, rubbing him through the fabric of his shirt and pants. Anticipation causes Angel to tense under the other man's methodical exploration.
Angel can't move much. Wesley wanted to tie him up and Angel let him, mostly because Wesley needs to know that Angel wants to trust him again. Part of Angel is unsettled by this lack of control, but another part of him is just glad to relinquish control and responsibility for a brief while. Maybe they can go back to the way things were? To being slightly more than friends or comrades in arms? Does the fact that Wesley's hands are touching him make them lovers?
Does it erase Wesley's betrayal? No, but it may mend the rift. Angel can't help wondering why everyone he comes close to ends up betraying him. First Darla, then Buffy, then Wesley and finally Connor. But Christmas is the time of forgiveness and making amends. No one knows that better than Angel. And Wesley is touching him...
Right now all Angel can think about is that it's been a long while since he felt other hands than his own on his straining cock. He wants Wesley there, wants him, wants.
Angel rocks his hips as much as his constraints allow. There! Please. Yes...
A strong hand closes around Angel's rock-hard erection, stroking it through the fabric of pants and boxers, with a possessiveness that makes Angel close his eyes and jerk his head back.
"You cannot conceive how often I've dreamt of doing this," Wesley murmurs, his voice slightly raspy. "Or perhaps you can. From what I've read the vampire sense of smell is highly superior. You must have gathered from my scent that I want you."
Angel just nods, unable or unwilling to talk.
When Wesley pulls up his shirt and slides his hands underneath to roam over Angel's chest, to tease taut nipples with surprisingly chilly fingers, rubbing, squeezing, Angel feels a fierce need building. There's a tight knot of want where his stomach should be.
"We should have done this a long time ago," Wesley continues. He sounds hoarse. His hands travel south and reach for the zipper. Angel's eyes fly open. There's a look of concentration on Wesley's face, total dedication to what he's doing. The same look he has when researching an ancient text. Maybe that's what he's doing, researching Angel with his hand, reading his body like some kind of Braille. Then Wesley's cool lips are back on Angel's throat, worrying skin and brushing over sensitive veins... If it weren't for the chains that bind him, Angel would writhe in need. The knot in his stomach tightens almost painfully and he clenches his fists. Angel needs Wesley's touch, needs him, needs.
"I read in some of the Council's journals that there are humans who crave the bite of a vampire, that being fed upon is an intensely sensuous experience," Wesley says softly and pulls him out.
Angel is achingly hard. He eagerly thrusts into Wesley's hands, desperate for more friction, hungry. Except why do Wesley's hands feel so cold, cold like Darla's, Dru's or Spike's?
Then Wesley says the words that undo him. "Will you take me? Will you drink my blood?"
He's almost nauseous from it: Hunger! Want! Need! Angel takes a shuddering breath and is wracked by unexpected pain. Cold water floods into his lungs! He can't suffocate or drown but the shock and pain cause him to panic. Angel thrashes about, but there's the iron grip on his chest, and he can't move. He's trapped inside a coffin at the bottom of the sea, it's dark and cold, so cold and he's so hungry. He howls, driving the water from his lungs but there is no sound
And there's no one here to hear him scream.
When Wesley looks at Angel, all he should see is the man who tried to murder him. Who took a pillow and pressed it into his face with all his might, to slowly suffocate the life out of him. A killer. It's all Justine sees, that's for sure.
Angel's skin is sickly and waxen, his face pallid. All a Watcher is supposed to see in him is a dead body animated by evil. Unnatural. Disgusting. An abomination.
Or maybe a playing piece in that chess game between good and evil. A dark knight snatched from the opposing side, splattered with a bit of white paint, bleached and tempered by hellfire, guilt and pain and put into play by the powers that screw with you. Ask Lilah.
But Wes doesn't want to see Angel - or the world, for that matter - through Justine's or Lilah's eyes. And he's no longer a Watcher.
Angel's eyes are open and he's looking at Wesley. "I should have killed you," Angel says.
Justine breaks out laughing. "And me without my camera!"
"He's been down there too long. Pig's blood isn't enough. He needs more substantial nourishment," Wesley states matter-of-factly.
"Like what?" Justine asks, but then the penny drops. "Oh, screw you!" she exclaims when Wesley unsheathes his knife. "I'm not feeding that thing,"
"No," Wesley agrees, reigning in his contempt. "Your blood's too thin."
He slashes the blade across the inner side of his left forearm. Blood wells up from a deep cut. It hurts but he doesn't even wince. The smell of fresh blood makes the vampire restless. Angel tosses his head around. "Wes..." he mutters, almost inaudibly. Wesley moves to the table and holds out his arm. He puts a hand on Angel's head and gently steers him towards the wound. After only a second's worth of hesitation, Wesley feels a cold tongue lapping up his blood. Angel begins to drink. He grips Wesley's arm with chilly hands that feel like they belong to a corpse, latches on to the wound with cold lips and greedily begins to suck.
It hurts. Not to mention the bruises Angel's hands are giving him. But the Council's books are accurate about this: it's also quite exquisite. Maybe it's the vampire's intense need, the fact that his blood is giving life, that's affecting Wesley, or maybe it's something in the vampire's saliva. Truth is, it's turning him on.
With Justine watching them, an erection is the last thing he needs. Wesley tries to control his breathing, tries not to think about touching the prone man before him, or about Angel's hands on his body. Tries to concentrate, knows he has to make sure Angel doesn't take too much.
He steadies himself with one hand on the table, because his knees suddenly feel weak. A tingling sensation spreads throughout his body and steadily increases in intensity. As Angel sucks and swallows in a steady rhythm Wesley's prick seems to throb with need.
This is the most intimate thing that's ever happened between him and Angel. It cuts deeper than the knife, gets under his skin, takes root.
He looks up and sees Justine staring at him. "This is sick!" she sneers. "Disgusting!"
Wesley is not sure if she's talking about the feeding or if she's aware of his arousal. He is relieved when she averts her eyes. This is rather embarrassing, but maybe it's just as well. Her presence keeps him from doing anything foolish.
Wesley is beginning to feel strangely light-headed, both from blood loss and arousal. He looks down. Angel's features have lost a some of their pallor. He'll heal now.
"Angel? You have to stop. If you take more you put me in danger..." Wesley murmurs. At first the sucking on his arm continues but then the vice-like grip on his forearm lessens and Angel lets go of him.
Their eyes meet. Wesley finds it impossible to tell what Angel is thinking. Even now, his expression is guarded. Then the vampire's eyes fall shut. Whether he's unconscious or just unwilling to look him in the eye, Wesley can't quite tell.
He pulls out the first aid kit and absentmindedly bandages his arm, hardly aware of the cut. He has always known that the wounds that hurt the most are the ones you don't see.