Grey Area
I used to give Buffy a hard time about her relations with Angel. It seemed simple: vampires, bad. Sex with vampires, bad. But now I see that it was more complicated. There's something between what's good and bad. There are bad things with good intentions. There are bad things that feel good. It makes it okay somehow. That's what I tell myself, as he leans in toward me.
The scent of cigarettes is heavy on his skin as his lips graze my cheek. It's disgusting. "Bad," I remind myself. I feel like the smell will make me vomit. I feel like I'm sick. I feel... strangely turned on. Not bad. I am even attracted to his dirtiness. He smirks, wordlessly, and licks his lips with that smoky tongue and I shiver. I am especially attracted to his dirtiness.
He unzips my jeans without hesitation. He grabs my cock through the material of my underwear, quite sure of himself. And I love it. I love the strength of his hands, their chill as he removes the barriers between us.
I am envious of the ease to which he commits these acts. We both want it, but only I have to deal with feelings of shame and self loathing. I wonder if he feels anything at all. I touch his face but he doesn't react.
He pulls my jeans to the ground, my underwear along with them, in one strong motion. My whole body tenses at the action. My eyes close in anticipation and the air is cold against my skin but not as cold as his fingers when they tug on my prick. It, in turn, grows hotter. My whole body heats up and is wildly alive in response to his cold, dead touch.
I struggle to breathe normally -- a problem he never faces. I want to form words, tell him how it feels, but all that escapes are short gasps. But the gasps make him understand just as well as any words could. They tell him to continue, that I won't pull away.
I feel that Marlboro tinged mouth meet my flesh. A wave of contrasting sensations rushes over me -- hot, cold, good, bad, wrong, right. It's almost too much. I suck in the dank air, and he sucks me in deeper.
My breathing is fast but his pace is slow, his tongue teasing better than any of his one-liners. But then, like a kind word, he speeds up. My hands tense, tugging his perfectly sculpted hair out of place. I pull his mouth as close to me as I can, holding him there. I shut my eyes and see a white even paler than his skin. And for a second, as I come, I can feel my heart stop. "This must be what he feels like," I manage to think.
I sigh and release my hold on him. He grunts. This, the only sign of recognition he's shown, primal, better than poetry. I smile. His poetry was never good anyway. This would have to be good enough.