On You
by Te
November 2000

Disclaimers: If they were mine, this would go on for much, much longer.

Spoilers: Various S2.

Summary: Wesley's had a night of it.

Ratings Note: NC-17

Author's Note: Distraction was needed, to be sure. This could be
a sequel to one thing or another, but I've decided it isn't. So there.

Acknowledgments: To my Brain and Mighty Mighty, for ideas and
encouragement. And to Sheila, for feeding my Wes need in all sorts
of ways.

Feedback: You know it. teland793@sbcglobal.net


debitchan: Sleepy eyed Wes?
Daddy793: Mmm, yeah. What has he been doing to get those eyes?
debitchan: Mmmmm.  Fucking someone.  And Angel can smell it.
Daddy793: And, see, Wesley knows now that Angel can smell it. There's
an urge to blush, to excuse himself to the w.c. for a quick scrubdown, but...
he has nothing to be ashamed about.

If Angel can smell what he was doing last night, and who he was doing it
with, then surely he had scented every long night's fantasy, the pain of
leather too tight on a heavy crotch. Knew that it belonged only to him.

And if he has smelled that, *known* that, and still done nothing...

Going through the mail and sensing Angel still in the room, knows better
than to try to pinpoint him based on his senses alone, vampires didn't
quite work that way. Had Wesley said good morning? Surely so.

Angel is waiting for *something*, but Wesley has no intention of prodding
him along. He doesn't trust himself not to say things along the lines of
"I could've been yours, you know. I still can." Or "Forgive me." Or "Fuck
you, Angel, it was good to be *warm*..."

And Gunn will be along shortly, and so he won't be the single recipient of
the observation for much longer, and he can damned well keep his mouth
shut. Or think of being wide open. Harsh breaths and the moan tamped
down the tight channel of his throat, held and vibrated there by Gunn's
long cock.

Uncut, slim and wonderful curve of it. Designed for this, for Wesley.
Fucking himself on that beautiful cock while Gunn's hands twitched and
tugged in Wesley's short hair. While Gunn looked down, watched with his
mouth open, his own lips wet.

Good to smile then, just a curve of lip, reflected in the silver of the
letter opener. Half a plan to put it somewhere within reach, just in case
a werewolf who wasn't Oz decided to be his or herself within the hotel.
Unlikely only within a logical universe, of which this is not.

It's still a surprise to see the flicker of shadow at the corner of his
eye resolve into Angel, just behind and to the left of him.

Standing, and looking in a way most people would construe as blank.
Wesley has no actual idea what it really means beyond not-blank, but
considers it progress.

"Is there something I can do for you, Angel?"

And there is silence, and silence, and the moment is getting heavier. The
sort of tactic his father perfected in a book-lined study. Call the
servant, or the boy-child, and then force him to wait on your pleasure. It
makes him want to lower his head. It makes him want to rip Angel's heart
out with his bare fist.

He wipes as much of it as he can from his voice. "Angel?"

And Angel moves closer, crouches down beside. Shifts for a moment so
brief as to be hallucinatory and then leans down to sniff at Wesley's hand,
wrist, all the way up the arm, up again and over the shoulder, down behind
to sniff at Wesley's armpit, nosing in for shattering second. Only being
hoarse from last night saves him from moaning, as opposed to the toneless
hiss he does give and when Angel settles by his throat he just waits

Breathing in an obscene parody of human existence for several moments
before moving up to Wesley's ear.

"It isn't because I don't want to."

"You're a bastard."

"My father would beg to differ." Amused, nearly jovial.

Wesley stiffens all over, forces himself to relax. Turns the chair so he
can look Angel in the eye. Gleam there that Wesley does not want to
name. "All right, Angel, if you want to, then why won't you? I am, by no
means, your moment of perfect happiness."

"No, you aren't."

Blunt, and it's something like pressure applied, something that won't
quite be felt until hours, days, years later when it finally becomes
unbearable, but. "Please, go on."

Soft chuckle, and Wesley does not allow himself to watch the shape of
Angel's mouth. Just the eyes, until it seems the bitterly amused honey
scratch voice is coming from everywhere, from his own mind: "I need time,
Wes. I'd built up all *sorts* of walls, protections. Even against you. But
Darla made me remember everything I'd carefully forgotten over the past
 hundred years."

"And thus justified your taking leave of all civil behavior?"

Moment's flash where Angel's eyes become holes, deep and somehow aching
to look at, followed by another smile Wesley can see at the corner of his
eyes. "It's all relative, isn't it? I'm not human, Wes, not yet. It could be
that you've broken thousands of years of vampire protocol by not arranging
yourself properly for your elder, that I may enjoy your scent."

"It may be that you're looking for an excuse."

"Is it so bad? If the excuse is to do what we both want? All day, all
night. You're young enough." Tastes the air. "Willing enough."


"What? Don't want me that way? Don't tell me you want the candles and
soft music. Candles are for hot wax, music is to cover the screams
unless. You do want that? You'd be so beautiful with just a few scars to
set off that pretty, pretty face."

Horrifying and compelling and Wesley's much too hard and Angel's eyes
are suddenly wild, and searching, and his hands burn cool through Wesley's
slacks. Palms cupping his knees, Angel on his knees again, that fast, diving
in. Nuzzling and mouthing at his crotch and it's icewater in Wesley's spine
and pure silk-hot gold and much too much. And. Wrong.

Braces his feet and pushes back, thank God for rolling chairs and leverage
and for an Angel, for the moment, unwilling to crawl. Staring at his
empty hands with those punched hole eyes before turning them on Wesley.
"It can be good, you know, Wes. You never, ever think of yourself as evil,
it's just..." Brittle chuckle. "A paradigm shift."


"I hate that name so goddamned much, but I have to keep it. Last gift
from my little sister. I can still remember the fall of her tears as I
drained her dry."

"Take what you want, and pay for it."

"Are you so happy with him, then? That one night? Wesley, I can feel
you needing me all over."

"I can't deny it."

"And yet, you do." On his feet again, and Wesley hurriedly stands, too.

"You expected me to roll over for this, *like* this knowing the

Angel, close again. "Be honest, Wes. How much harder would it have been
if Gunn hadn't taken the edge off last night?"

"*Bastard* --"

Tongue hard in his mouth, wide and surprisingly wet, hands fisting in his
jacket, yanking him close, knuckles brushing through fabric at his nipples.
Shocking him into sucking on Angel's tongue, impossible not to melt into
Angel's groan, Angel's pure, reckless want and the proof brushing,
thrusting against Wesley's erection and this is.

Mind like tar, slow and thick and useless. Thought and counterthought of
the ways this could go, of what could happen once he slowed the violent
tremble in his arms. All understandable and hopeless reactions to this.
Breathing harshly through his nose, and then one of Angel's hands is
cradling the back of his head while the other is roving over his chest,
pinching and chafing.

And when Wesley registers the sounds of his own desperate moans
there's nothing but surrender available. Faithful servant, and helplessly
infatuated and trapped now by his dick and his heart because of fleeting
flashes of pain in Angel's eyes.

Because of Angel's goodness, and, yes, his alien-ness, too.

Kiss broken and Wesley nearly sways. Angel holding him still, nuzzling
and kissing all over Wesley's face, lapping at the new sweat on his throat,
making Wesley shiver and.

"Say yes." Half purred against the jugular, followed by sucking kisses,
graze after graze of dull, square teeth.

"Angel, don't ask me this."

"I already did, Wes. You love me so much, I can feel it. And I'll always
take care of you."

"How? Curse me with a soul? Share your existence, and the constant
danger to everyone I care about?" Tries to push Angel back, but it's
like pushing a wall. Angel just burrows further against his skin and
there's a flash. The two of them, tangled bedsheets, Angel's fangs deep
inside him, Angel's cock deep inside him, socketed together, cool and cool
and lost to each other, dead to the world, and the ache behind his eyes is
unmistakable, but resistible.

Angel chuckling now, softly. "You're stronger than I am, Wes. They would
never have to fear you."

"Like I have to fear you."

"Yes. Yes, but please don't."

And Wesley waits for it, the moment when all the pathetic quavering
inside finally settles to a slow hum. "I fear you, Angel, in this state. I
will not consent to be turned. And. I... love you."

Feels the shift, so close, a blast of cold, malignant power. Doesn't try
to brace himself so much as to look for that spot within himself that
will forgive, whenever he's cursed with it back again. And the next
moment finds him several feet away from Angel, grabbing at the desk
for support, and watching Angel's back as he walks toward the basements,
and the sewer entrances.

Wesley breathes, and straightens himself as best he can, and waits for
Gunn and Cordelia.

And wonders what, if anything, he'll say.