ethrosdemon ||| Buffy & Angel

Detente
by ethrosdemon

Distribution: Ask me, and I will cry from joy.
Disclaimer: Joss made it up, too bad he is an incompetent ninny. Mutant Enemy and others own the rights. No sueing please.
Rating: NC-17 I don’t want to tell you what for! Don’t read it if you are underage (that’s the point of the whole rating thing). Ok, fine, pitch black themes, I will give you that much because I feel obligated.
Pairing: Angel/Wesley
Feedback: There is a voodoo doll with your name on it. Whether the pins go in or not is up to you.
Dedication: To Angel and Wes for their insights. The betas: Spyke Raven and Olwen without whom this fic would not have made it to any lists. Also to Chris who lent me Angelus’s number, unfortunately for the angstometer I got Angel instead.
Note: This is the 3rd of a series. It is the end, start at the beginning. (The 1st two are Wedding Rose and Unbound)
Note II: Détente means the easing of strained relations. Spoilers for First Impressions.

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“Is this really how you want to do this?” Shake a little plaster from my hair. Maybe this place isn’t in as good a shape as I had assumed. I can hear his heart beating and still feel his presence behind me. No bolting now. His instincts always make me wonder.

“What do you mean by do this, exactly?” Sullen. Rude even. “You mean, why is it that I appear still to be in possession of my facilities after you pin me to the floor and almost strangle me to death? Of course that is only AFTER you inform me that you are really Angelus. No, I mean, Angelus under wraps. I suppose you were thinking that no one could resist your charms, and I would fall headfirst into your bed? Maybe even that if you had to rape me, I would forgive you, that I would see it was out of love?”

His shadow is bobbing and thrusting at me on the wall. Arms flailing about and his hands screaming at me even though his voice is kept ominously monotone.

Bend down to pull my pants on. Probably better to face him clothed so he doesn’t see how my cock reacted in absolutely the wrong way to the word rape. What reason is there for him to know how many times orgasm has shattered me to component parts at the image of me taking him by force? Which riff on that fantasy will be before bed tonight? Wesley looking to be punished for breaking Faith; tied to my bed, lash marks across his back streaked with my come? Pushing me too far for coddling her after torturing him; my hand on the back of his neck shoving his face into my desk taking his ass hard and bloody?

Some distance might be in order here. Fuck.. Gunn. That means we have to talk it out now. That means knocking Wesley out and tying him down until he understands I own him. Until he understands I need him to approve of me. Until he weeps at the boiling, churning need I have for his affection…Or a headwound might erase our earlier conversation. Shake off that last one.

“Wesley. Please listen to me.” His hands are clinched at his side now, shoulders hunched up slightly. God. How many times have I seen this.

“I’m waiting.” So brave to come into my space and step up to me, bring the fight to my door and refuse to back down. And that is killing me a little, fracturing me more than I already am.

“You mean more to me than you realize, Wesley” tenderness spills out before I can get my fingers into it to keep it back and inside.

“Angel, I don’t know what kind of relationship you think we have, but I was under the impression that we were friends. Maybe not even friends. People who share danger—which fosters a sense of intimacy, certainly, but what do you really know about me?”

“That you like blueberry yogurt?” More words getting away from me, this time from a different place.

“Have you lost your mind?” His face is puckered up , like one of those little dogs rotund old women keep /pugs?/. So devourable, his hand in his hair, posture loosening up. Unsure of himself again. And I have to laugh. It starts as an itch under my breastbone and works out of my mouth rebounding through the room. Start to gasp, and the tears are coming now, collapse on the ground.

“I think you may be cracked.” But he is smiling too. I want to lick the corner where it curls back, run my tongue over his top lip and the bit of teeth there, taste the secret tang of nicotine and peppermint. No more laughter when that thought starts to blossom, but smiles all around still; mine from the thought of him making the move I want to make and his for whatever secret thoughts I don’t know.

“If you were to put on a shirt, perhaps we could save Mr. Gunn’s life before some demon sucks his brains out through his ears.” Flippant remarks about eating brains. Everyone has layers.

“What do you think? Black for brain-eating demons, or charcoal?”

Then there is the episode with the bike. Payback’s a bitch. Looks more like I’m the bitch with my Instant-Sub-Starter-kit pink helmet. Don’t let any stray childer bounce into my life tonight.

*

Nonhuman things dying.



*

The steering column of my car busted open to hotwire it. Five attempts at hotwiring and bumbling into ignition.



*

Then there is home and my battle to stay awake for as long as I can just in case he comes by.

And how will it go when he shows up to trap me and we have to * talk*? Gnawing at it. Working it over in my mind until it’s a bruise that won’t heal. Me left alone to “brood”. They all like to see me that way. Unfortunately for me, tonight they would be right

Is there even room here, a way at all to tell him? What words are there for it? How do you tell the only person you have ever felt could understand about the secret life what that means? What it means that the belief is there, when it never was before. The ripples of trust and openness and of wanting to be exposed and bare. It was never there for HER. What happens when she comes into this? Why bring her in? She’s always there, hovering in the back of everyone’s mind. Can it be explained that there was never an US; there was me grasping for that shiny, obliterating, HUMAN thing, and there was her being a child and clutching for adulthood and that one, utter, self-denying love that can never come twice and can never be let go fully? And then there was the distance. The room to move again in my own skin and not be the Thing Under Glass. The vampire with a Soul, who was once the Thing that Killed Jenny Calendar, tortured Rupert, ruptured their youth? There was the slight release on the vise, of the crushing pressure of never being supposed to enjoy even a stolen second of joy. There has never been a friend, an intimate, someone who accepted without question, who doesn’t judge or demean. Not in my life before my turning, not in my days before I felt remorse, certainly not since the curse.

That is why I had to tell him the truth. No option not to. It was like a cancer, killing me slowly. Sharing my life with him, the kill, the risk, the hours of nothing but sitting and being, and not telling him the one thing I was breaking from wanting to tell someone! The one thing that could shatter it all and leave me alone again. It ate at me, slowly from the inside. I kept it hidden as far down as possible where there was no risk of being caught. Show as little emotion as possible. No laughing or joking, no interest in the sensual world for fear that the lack of guilt would betray the truth. Every day I would see him, hear the way he talked to me, trusted me, accepted me as his friend, and I felt smaller and more worthless, and I needed him more from him and of him. Need became the center of my everything. What I feel for him I have never felt for anyone. Not Buffy, not ANYONE. I want him as my mate. That is the Thing clawing it’s way through my stomach now. Mate him to me; drink from him, just enough, but, oh god, at least one glorious taste. Bind him to me. Don’t let him escape.

Sleep stumbles onto me while these thoughts bump and rattle into one another merging and confusing themselves and me.

Waking up is an ordeal. More and more tired everytime. Pad down to the kitchen to heat some blood and shake off the * wrong* feeling that clings to me recently when I wake up.

I can hear it before I am 15 feet from the door. A heartbeat. From the cadence, definitely human. Let it be Cordy or even David Nabbit, not some thief or idiot sent here to kill me. Blood sounds like blood right now. Fresh might be indulged in.

His back is to me. Sitting at the table with papers and books strewn about. Lying in wait.

“Not sleeping well?” His hearing is better than most.

“Hungry.” Cross to the fridge, pull out a bag, over to the microwave, nick it with a tooth so it doesn’t explode, pop it in without putting it in a glass.

“No one is about to die. Do you want to talk or go on avoiding it?” Clipped words. Bringing the fight to me again.

Gouge through the plastic with my teeth and drink. Human. Rustled from a bloodbank by Cordy. Don’t think I could deal with this on pig’s blood.

*sigh* “Wes, what do you want me to say?” Might as well sit. Force him to look at me, allow me to watch him. Any part of him. Blurred, sleep hazed vision clearing. Honing in. Cardinal red cashmere. Vivid color married to hedonistic texture; vampire bait. Compelling me to touch it. Imperative. Fingers reach out of their own accord and stroke the fabric on his arm. And he can have no idea how strong my urge is to claim him. To make him mine only. Instinct. Mate.

“Angel, what are…” my fingers are tracing around under the collar of the sweater. Skin on one side of my fingers, cashmere on the other, and the horizon is slipping away. So close, on the edge of the seat. His face six inches at most, and I can smell the tobacco and bay rum soap. Stunned. Scared maybe.

“Wesley, can I kiss you?” Soft enough he has to lean in a little to hear me. The forbidden territory of his mouth, so close I could take without asking. Will take without permission if provoked. Too far gone for denial. Slight movement back and my hand is winding around the nape of his neck.

“Angel, I’m not gay.” Earns the grin it gets from me.

“You don’t have to be.” He’s not resisting, just warning. The need taking over and closing the distance. Brush my lips along his, silk on satin. Dart my tongue, wet his mouth. Brush it under the curve where his bottom lip juts out, and his hand is on my shoulder. Bare skin. Came here from sleep in only my underwear. And he opens for me: just enough compliance to let me take advantage, just enough hesitation to make it taking advantage. His tongue hits mine and rips a growl from my throat. Him jumping back, chair flying out from under him, smack on the ground, and I’m on him.

“Angel, please. This isn’t me. I can’t be this.” His words moans and sighs, my face in his neck. Licking him. Licking up from his throat along the curve of his jaw to his ear. Marking and scratching as I go, the lick to taste the blood just that much closer to the surface.

“Wesley. Let me show you how much you need this.” Suck his lobe into my mouth. Can’t stop myself from thrusting into his hip, the taste of his skin working me to the point where speech will not be available much longer. The craving scrabbling onto my brainstem and blocking everything else.“Let me show you how much I need this…need you.” Snake three fingers between his waistband and waist. No underwear.

“You knew this was going to happen, naughty.” Him pulling, twisting, trying to wrench from my grip. Pin him with my weight, force my face to fill his vision, can’t avoid me, his eyes on my lips not my eyes. “I like it…” His hand pulling my hair enough for delicious pain, gonna come before I ever touch him because his right hand pushes down on my lower back, him thrusting up, brushing his cock against mine through too much material.

“Wes, be still. It’s been a while for me.” Brace my hands to push my self up. Pull him forward. On our knees. Lays his glasses on the edge of the table.

“I’ll do what you want, if you keep talking,” his smile, wicked.

“Soon my mouth will do something so much better than talking,” his turn to look like this might end with his clothes on.

Pushing me back again. So much stronger than he looks.

“The curse…you, uh, should…” Panic kicking up. Fight or flight soon.

“Another time, we’ll talk about that later. You’re not going to die anything but a small death.” Fists full of that attention stealing sweater, undershirt coming with it, and there is Wesley’s familiar chest suddenly not so familiar inches from my face. His own hands scrambling for his belt, buttons on his fly. Kicking his worn, demonblood burnt wingtips under the table. My fingers curling back under his wasteband, my mind curling into the numbing knowledge that this is * real* and *now *, shoving his pants down, kicking them with my toes away from his calves. And our bodies are sliding together. Existing is bound to his finger down my spine and his gasp when my thumbnail scratches over his nipple. Gotta be fast. Slide down, tongue flicking the same nipple, hand digging into his left hip, cheek rubbing against his chest hair, fine long body hair. Heartbreakingly beautiful.

“Angel…Jesus.” Thrust so hard it’s almost a buck, his back arches, shoulders on the floor hand in my hair pushing me down. But…sable moles in a small constellation on his lower stomach, and I have to lick, lick, lick taste each one. Burrow my face in cornsilk, mark myself with his scent, run the flat of my tongue from the base of his cock to the tip, hold him down. Both his hands in my hair, pull, tug, push. His blood singing to me, his moans about to push me to the brink. No more tease, take him all, tip to base and suuuuuuuuckkk. Feel the pulse against my tongue, feel the owning him and the belonging, and the needing so much more.

“An….now. God…” Both his hands shove hard at my head, hips thrust in time and he’s keening, salt and sweet burning down my throat my lips and scalp bruising. Claiming me right back.

Me falling back against the tile, laying flat flicking my tongue to savor the taste and he’s hovering over me. Looks disoriented.

“Do you want me to…” and his hand creeping down…inside pulling silk away from my cock, wrapping around and * tugging* just enough; my head slams back into the floor * crack* light and drowning and sudden overwhelming urge to bite bite bite have to drink from him… crack my eyes and semen is dripping from his face, pooling in the hair on his chest, falling back onto me.

“Wes…” his tongue darts out the tiniest bit drawing my come into his mouth. Last fibre of control snapping almost audiblly. Throw him down. His head cracking this time. On him, fangs too quick for human reason. Him moaning and yanking my hair to get my teeth out of his leg: too late, spiraling down into the ecstasy of salt and copper and lust surging into my mouth. Bringing out his personal terror. Adrenaline hits the mixture flowing from his artery and my fingers wrap around his cock to bring him with me

“Angelus…yes…don’t kill…m…” both coming , exploding, falling into Nothingness then to dream.

She’s there waiting on the otherside. All hungry smiles and stabbing words masked by love that killed me once, killed her once.

“Darling child, you could have ended it tonight. Ended the pain, ended the need for him, the need for a weak, cringing human. He will never love you. Never love you the way I can love you. No one ever will, precious one.”



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