Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me.

Situation Normal All Fucked Up
by Princess Twilite (princesstwilite2 at aol.com / website: Twilite's Whip)

Pairing: Wesley/Angel (implied Angel/misc., implied Wesley/misc.)

Rated: NC-17 (graphic m/m sex)

Spoilers: General [Angel] Season Four, slight AU

Beta Reader: Karen, who has made me Slash’s bitch (and gave me the title!).

Credit: Thanks to Jami for a single word: feral. He wants credit for taking part in gay sex. Rowr! You go boy!

Warning: Male/male homo-eroticism ahead. Graphic sex depicted. M’kay?

Summary: Two guys who hate love. Need is versatile.

A vampire doesn’t get drunk so much as he gets weakened, as the alcohol slips through the blood stream, pushing its way into the still mass of liquid. Burns. Makes a vampire feel heavy, almost indistinguishable from a human.

I twist the bottle between my fingers, lick my lips and taste the salt stuck inside the cracks of chapped skin. Stare out at the city. The lights grimace back at me, tinkling fairies with an agenda. Sighing, I lean my belly against the wall, tip my head over to see the street below.

People pass, unaware of everything I do for them. Every. Damn. Day. Not that I care. Epiphany’s are like that.

I could drop the bottle, possibly hit someone on their skull, and probably kill them instantly (though I’ve always been a fan of the slow, myself). But it’d be funny in a way, to see it knock them upside the head like a potted plant. I chuckle, try to cut off the laughter with my palm, and then chuckle some more. Ah, humans are so funny sometimes.

(Necks. They break like twigs, snap-crackle-pop and then they’re dead. Humanity is so simple, so thin.)

Pulling back from the ledge, I angle my head on my neck so that I can see the sky. Vaguely, the stars peek through the smog and pollution, their light filtering through all the dirty things this earth does to try and kill them. I remember a time when the sky was as clear as glass and so untouched I had almost wanted to reach up and rape it. But that was so long ago…

Everything is so very different now.

(“Angel, I need your help.” And she stares at Groo. Everyone but me. When it comes to me, she always seems to need ‘time.’)

I think I’m sick of the games. Sick of the wanting. I’m weary of always waiting for my turn. Frustrated, I jump away from the wall and make a running leap to the next building, landing a little clumsily as the alcohol worms its way through my system.

There’s always someone else. It burns and hurts like hell, but there’s more than one person who has wanted me. And she’s not the only one *I’ve* wanted in return. I imagine flesh pressing together, lips locking, and mutual needs battling in the push-shove of fucking. And God, I want it. It’s been so long, since Darla. Why can’t I have it? Why. Can’t. I. Have. It.

There’s no logical reason anymore. I’m not exactly going to lose my soul now, am I? Not with the way I’m feeling tonight. What? Am I saving myself for Cordelia now?

She doesn’t care enough about me to give it a try and I think I just might hate love, with all its little hang-ups and let-me-downs. Fuck it. I’m not about to sit around and play suburban housewife while she tries to get her head around the things I’ve done. Cordelia has known who I am and what I am, from the start. The things I’m trying to atone for. I’ll never be a good little boy with an IRA and a rich mother in law for her to chat with.

Fuck it, and fuck her. I’m done with hurting.

My duster lifts away from me as I leap my way across the buildings. In my head, I count my way toward cutting ties and burning bridges.

* * *

Black silk boxers. Wesley’s thighs straining as he stretches, waking.

He won’t expect to find me here. He won’t expect to have me sitting at the end of his bed, with my clothes off and my eyes as dead as a freshly dug grave. Wesley jerks when he wakes up fully, a strangled gasp working from his throat. He sits up fast, and just as quickly I have my hand on his shoulder, holding him still.

Wesley blinks. Once. Twice. He would reach for his glasses, but I’m holding on too tightly. My fingers make depressions in his skin. I can’t let go. Not tonight.

“Get out,” he says quietly but firmly, and I close my eyes. “You don’t have the right to be here.”

There was a time, and not too long ago, when his first words would have expressed concern.

“I don’t have the right to a lot of things,” I reply in monotone, opening my eyes and staring at his white flesh sliced up by the light from the bathroom. Shadows can be so cruel. I can hear the blood rushing through his veins, hot, urgent, and a little angry. “It’s never stopped me before.”

“Hasn’t it?” he asks. I don’t have a reply. I’ve never been one to speak at length, unless there was a reason; there certainly is one now, but still the words won’t come. Wesley pulls back from my hand angrily. I catch a brief glimpse of the goose bumps rising on his arms before he is sliding off the bed and walking toward his bedroom door. “Out.”

Obviously, he can barely see in such a darkened room. But I, on the other hand, can see perfectly fine.

I stare at him, numbly. He’s thin as hell, but the muscles of his stomach and thighs speak of vigorous hours spent working out. Training. They speak of determination. I remember when he hadn’t been quite this… lithe.

(Hospital bed. Wesley’s face pale against it. The pillow is so easy to grab, so light and weightless in my hands…)

Wesley gets a frustrated look on his face as I continue to sit, making no effort to move. His shoulders hitch on a sigh and he opens the door himself, urging me out with a jerk of his chin. I don’t pay attention, I never have. I just continue to stare at him, waiting.

I know the instant he notices I’m naked, by the catch of his breath. I hear it lodge somewhere in his throat, as his eyes go round and his fingers tighten on the doorknob. It’s a squeak of sound, flesh against copper.

“You ever been in love, Wes?” I ask him and he nearly jumps out of his skin, stepping back and ramming his shoulder against the door. Wincing, he frowns at me. A sore subject obviously.

(Fred’s face, soft and in love, buried in Gunn’s chest. She’s hiding a smile. Gunn’s holding on tight.)

“Not with you,” he tells me, voice heavy with disapproval. Like I *care*.

“That’s not what I asked.” I shake my head and set my jaw. I’ll have my answer.

“Why are you here, Angel?” he responds at last. Wesley gestures vaguely to an area around my hips and I give him an empty smile. “And naked?” His voice cracks slightly and he clears his throat loudly. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m--“ he clears his throat, plainly struggling. “Angel, I’m not gay.”

“Didn’t say you were. Didn’t say I was.” I sigh loudly. He’s dragging me away from the topic at hand. “Answer the question Wesley.” He stares at me hard for a very long time and I’m about to speak again when he tips his gaze, looks somewhere past my shoulder. Maybe his eyes are on the clock where it sits on the bedside table, trying tries to make time something that can be made to fit inside a box. I haven’t been around for long as some, but I know that’s never going to happen. Time is as infinite and untouchable as emotion. Just as breakable too, under a hand that isn’t careful with it.

“I’ve been in love. More than once,” he says finally, still not meeting my eyes. He clears his throat sharply and again grips the doorknob. “Now if that’s all you wanted to hear, gather your clothes and whatever ideas you have, then leave.”

But it’s not all I want, and he knows it. I stand abruptly, making the springs in the mattress squeak. Wesley pales a little but stands his ground firmly at the door. The scent of his fear, and yes, arousal, burns inside my nostrils. I don’t bother with the pretense of reaching for my clothes sitting in a tidy pile at the foot of his bed.

(Darla. Bones old and capable of bending. Make her naked. Make her naked *now*. Spike looks on with a sardonic expression, eyebrow arched, tongue between his teeth.)

The carpet is soft as I walk toward him, cushioned, and I briefly consider how careless it is for him to have taken away such a necessary alarm. A bare floor in his bedroom is possibly the last thing that could save his life from an intruder’s hand. I file this away in my mind, know it now, though I wish I didn’t. Because who knows who I’ll be tomorrow? Control is obligatory in my situation, and there are always ways to make it go away. My feet make no sound and he pulls the door open wider, waving his hand toward it even as his gaze flickers to where my clothes lie abandoned.

He’s interested. I can tell by the slight glaze that works over his pupils.

“Are you afraid of me?” I whisper when I close the space between us and stand inches from where he is, radiating heat. I soak it up, that warmth, like I’d drink human blood if my conscience wasn’t always there to remind me that it would be wrong. That conscience itches now in the back of my throat, reminding me how wrong it is to use someone, but I’m so tired… and in need. Basic, indefinable need.

Wesley shakes his head, eyes glinting somewhere near silver, but blue like something cold. “I’m not afraid of you Angel. Not in the slightest. I’m just starting to wonder why I didn’t see it before.”

“See what?” I tilt my head to the side, staring at him from behind lowered lashes.

Loneliness is like this. Cold and devastating, and I’m so sick of not being warm. Of listening to her heartbeat and hearing her TELL me it’s never going to happen for us. What gives her the right to make my choices? Enough!

(Cordelia. Her hand on my cheek. Her eyes on mine. Her lips say no. Hurts. I grow to hate her.)

Wesley has been in love. He can understand. He knows what rejection is.

“That you’re a bloody fag!”

He’s also in serious denial.

I curl up my lip, and reach out to set my hand back onto his shoulder. His muscle flinches beneath my touch and I can hear his heart hop, speed into overdrive. Pumping out blood, making his skin hotter. Wesley’s eyes are hard and unyielding, but I sense a hunger in him that only I can understand.

Love. Break. Forget.

(Buffy has eyes like ice. They crack when she says goodbye, again and again. Hate squirms close by, but I’m the one hurting her.)

To forget, to give into the urges, to just let it all go to hell and watch it, with a cigarette between your fingers and a smile on your face. I get it, right down deep; I’ve never known anything BUT this. There’s always a goodbye lurking somewhere inside love’s heart. It never fails to bite you in the ass.

Wesley turns his head to the side and the stubble of his beard rasps against my hand. My fingers clench around his shoulder sharply and his eyes meet mine, defiant.

“Have you ever heard of a vampire that was completely straight?” I ask him, and watch his lips fold together, forming a tight line of restraint as he keeps his body stiff and away from my own. He doesn’t answer. “I didn’t think so.”

“Why are you HERE, Angel?” Wesley asks, looking serious and more awake than he’d like to be. I start to answer him, but he shakes his head. His hair is cut short, doesn’t shift. It used to be longer, fuller. So many things are versatile. “Why NOW? After everything that has happened, I’d think you’d be somewhere else. You and I, we’ve never-”

“I don’t hate you Wesley.” He moves his gaze away from mine, and it lands somewhere on my chest. Where my heart doesn’t beat, my ribs don’t lift, and I don’t breathe. “I did, but it’s hard to keep on hating when I’ve begun to understand.”

“Understand,” he says. Frowns. “You’ve never understood. Not a single bloody thing.” I look at him thoughtfully, at the way his eyes move across my torso and the way his tongue darts out to swipe at the corner of his mouth.

(Wesley. Staring. Doesn’t know that *I* know. I’m his fucking hero.)

“I understand more than you’d like me to,” I lean forward, until my nose nearly bumps into his. No need for pretense tonight. Wesley tips his head back, away from mine. The angle at which he’s holding it has to hurt. “I always have. You smell like burning leaves when you’re horny, Wes.” His breath releases in a hiss across my face and he uses both his hands to shove me away. Puts force behind it. I allow myself to fall a few short steps back.

My flesh stings pleasantly where his palms have slapped against it.

“Get the hell out!” Wesley’s chest heaves as he approaches me, growls into my face.

“Not yet,” I tell him. “Not until we clear the air between us.”

“And how are we going to do that, might I ask?” he demands, and I smell old liquor on his breath. Like lust, like Lilah, like sex. My stomach turns over, and I shift my face away, just the slightest inch so that I don’t have to think about them fucking. “By having sex? I’m sorry, but that’s not called clearing that air, that’s called using each other.”

“And you’re not exactly immune to that, are you?”

(Lilah. Her blood tastes both sweet and bitter, in eternal conflict. It lingered in my mouth for a week.)

“Leave her out of this,” he whispers, his cheeks sharp as a blade. I remember a time when he would have stumbled back from this conflict. Ran away. Now he stands still and strong, as desire licks the inside of my stomach. “Our agreement is mutual.”

“Right,” I snort, and his lips pull back across his teeth. I shake my head. “But that’s not why I’m here. You took my son. I’ve already accepted that, remember? There are *other* things.” Wesley takes a deep breath, lets it out, seems to deflate before he moves around me and sits heavily on his mattress.

“That was a long time ago,” he replies tiredly. Wesley’s face is beginning to become lined with age and I’m almost jealous. “Things have changed.”

“They always do.” I take a couple of steps forward, sit beside him on the bed. It dips low beneath our combined weight. “But there’s something you should know.” He tilts his head to the side, meets my eyes with his own. “I wanted you too.” Wesley reels back as if I’ve slapped him and his mouth parts. I reach out, brush my finger over his bottom lip, pressing my thumb against it firmly. “I thought you had a pretty mouth and wondered what you could do with it.”

(Speaking, Wesley’s jaw moves smoothly beneath his skin. It’s a clean shave today and his shirt is buttoned up straight to his throat. He’s always so closed off, so quietly composed. I’d like to make him sweat, just a little.)

Wesley’s hand is trembling when he wraps his fingers around my wrist and pulls my fingers away from him. He doesn’t let go, holds onto me midair. The shaking moves into me like electricity, jolting my gut. “Angel we-“ Wesley swallows hard, searches for words. “It’s not a good idea,” he says finally.

“Why isn’t it?” I demand. I’m not about to be rejected again. “It’s not like any of them can understand this. The *bad* things we’ve done.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Wesley argues quietly, but viciously, as if poised on the edge of a snake-pit. I lift my chin, tugging my wrist away from his grip. He resists my release for a moment, and then suddenly grants it by dropping his hand down to the side. Fingers now free, move up to trace the line of Wesley’s jaw, burning the pads against sharp stubble. My eyes track the movement.

“Yes, you are,” I whisper, and his eyes betray him. He’s afraid of being anything I am, while at the same time he craves my companionship. Craves the connection. Whatever he once felt for me has not gone away, only lies boiling beneath the surface. “You took Connor’s childhood away from him,” I carry on relentlessly.

“I didn’t *know*!” Wesley shouts vehemently, his hands jumping into the air, palms facing the ceiling. I raise a finger to my lips, suggesting that he be quiet. It wouldn’t do to be heard. “I thought I was doing the right thing.” Quieter now, more of a rasp than a whisper. Wesley is feeling the hunger churning in his stomach. I can smell it as I look on. Taste it on the underside of my tongue.

“Maybe you were,” I shrug and my hand trails down his throat, where his pulse throbs quick and hard. His breath has begun dragging dangerously from his lungs, like he has broken glass lodged inside his windpipe. “But that’s one thing you should know by now about consequences. They don’t care about good intentions.”

“I’ve paid my dues.” Wesley doesn’t move beneath my touch, lets my finger slide down the center of his chest. He sucks in his stomach when I skim the tip of my forefinger across his left pectoral muscle. “In full, I might add. There’s no need to be here asking for more from me. I gave you my blood!”

(Skin in my mouth, pierced by my teeth. Hazy, like rain is dripping into my eyes. Seawater? Blood. Thick. Running down my throat.)

“That’s not why I’m here,” I pinch his stomach and he yelps, slapping me away. “It doesn’t have to be about anything that’s happened. I’m just… there’s something going on between Cordelia and Connor.” Wesley looks shocked, eyebrows raised high on his forehead, eyes round. “Yeah. And I’m tired of not getting what I want. I want you. I have for… I’m *going* to have you.”

Wesley stares at me hard and I can see the wheels of his brain turning behind his eyes.

(Smart boy, that Wesley. Always bent over the books, able to read through them even as Cordelia chatters in his ear. Always frowning. Always thinking. He leans forward with a sigh. Always sad. Always alone.)

I’m about to make my move, set my foot firmly into the cement of no return, but humanity is surprising and I will never truly understand it, even having been human myself. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as though electrified.

“Wrong, Angel. I’m going to have *you*.”

Lips. Firm and dry. Pressing mine apart. I tilt my head to the side, opening my mouth. Wesley’s tongue sweeps inside, touches mine. It’s a firm, wet appendage smoothing against my cheeks and behind my teeth. “You taste like you’ve been drinking,” he whispers into me and pulls back just the slightest. His eyelashes are long, eyes piercing on mine.

I shrug, there’s no use denying it. “I have. Otherwise I probably wouldn’t be here.” Wesley blinks at me and then shakes his head as if it doesn’t really matter. Kisses me again. I sigh, breath fluttering against his lips as he grips my shoulders in warm, callused hands.

My hands are smooth, and a secret, human part of me is embarrassed. Vanity that. But a vampire doesn’t have calluses, as he probably knows. Those hands stroke over my chest in firm motions, something not quite a caress. More for assurance that I’m here and we are touching each other like this.

Realizing that my hands have been idle, I wrap one around the back of his neck, directing the kiss deeper. Harder. Drawing his taste in through my lips and embedding it firmly in the place that has always been just a little hungry for him. Wesley moans, a sound somewhere beneath silent. Rich and deep, it flows into my stomach and makes me rock hard instantly.

Okay, maybe more than just a *little* hungry for him.

Groaning, I pull away from his mouth and nip at his chin wolfishly, catching it between my teeth briefly before I lick the underside of his jaw in one, hot swipe. He arches his neck, baring the white flesh to me. The motion is primal, seductive with thousands of years of feral impulses.

(A girl. Young. Her breasts are large and her hair is long. She flips the hair behind her shoulders and pouts her lips. She’s going to die tonight.)

I duck my head further down and suck his skin in between my lips, hard enough to leave a mark. Wesley strangles a groan in his throat and drags me away from his neck by gripping the hair on the back of my head. His eyes speak of too much temptation and I grin shakily, shrugging my shoulders.

I can’t help what I am. At least he seems to understand that.

Wesley tilts up my chin, placing his lips over my throat in an imitation of my previous action. Sucking and leaving red marks across my skin that will vanish in seconds. I almost wish, for a very brief second, that I could keep the marks and gather them like a chain of bruises.

He’d make a gorgeous vampire.

“You taste even better than I expected,” he says against my collarbone and that’s about the only admission I’ll get from him. Fantasies are private. I nod, swallowing as I glance down at his face, half caught in the bathroom light. Wesley’s tongue darts out, wets a line in the center of my chest, between my nipples.

The sight is what’s stimulating, his lips attaching themselves to my skin over and over again, as if he’s taking slow sips to savor later on. I brush my fingers over his cropped hair, feel the grainy strands lift up beneath my touch. I make a mental note to rib him for using hair gel; it’d be so nice to get pay back for some of his smart-ass remarks.

(“Why, yes Angel, it IS two in the afternoon. Spend extra long on your hair this morning or is this going to be a regular thing?” I’ve always hated high-society Englishmen.)

I listen to the beating of his heart as he shifts his mouth to the side, tongue swiping across my flat nipple in a heated caress that has me arching toward him. My backbone pops with decompression and Wesley lets out a short chuckle that nearly has me pulling away, before his teeth latch on, tugging on my nipple. I’m once again just plain hungry and ready to get on with it already.

Wesley gives a little push on my stomach and I scoot back on the bed, lay down against the pillows. It’s been a while since another man has touched me like this and it’s a little odd at first to have him crawling up the bed to straddle my thighs.

His boxers ride up and I’m given a short glimpse of his thigh muscles shifting. I run my palms over them, sliding my fingers beneath the fabric, along the skin sprinkled with coarse hair and up over his hips. Cup them as Wesley stays still, staring down at me with a strange look in his eyes. Taking my gaze away from his, I reach for his hand and he jerks it back away from me.

“What?” I demand beneath a harsh pant. My stomach is twisting and I need… SOMETHING.

“This isn’t going to be *your* way, Angel.” Furrowing my brow, I move to sit up but his palms catch my shoulders and I’m abruptly shoved back down onto the mattress. Wesley leans forward and his bare belly rubs teasingly over my cock. Eyes dark, he drags his tongue up from my belly button to the edge of my chin. A cool streak of air breaks across my skin in his wake, as his saliva cools. Vampire or not, the temperature change is swift and I shudder, my penis aching with pressure as my hips hump up reflexively against his belly.

Wesley’s mouth cocks up in a smile. Bastard.

Then he hovers there, just above me, with his mouth breathing all over my jaw. I turn my head to the side, catch some of his breath and suck it in. His lips land on the corner of my jaw as his weight drops heavily onto me, securing my cock more firmly between us. I finally get a feel of Wesley’s erection when it taps lightly against my thigh as he moves. His boxers have a wet spot and it rubs along the inside of my leg, as I reach up and drag his mouth down to mine with one hand and tug his hips harder against me with the other.

Beautiful friction ignites in my loins as he gives a little chuff of breath, pulling away from my lips to moan into my neck, rubbing himself against me like a large cat. I’d smile but I’m too far-gone, gasping and groaning as Wesley reaches down, wrapping his stable fingers around my erection and giving it a good squeeze. I can only grimace and arch my hips up into the air as Wesley lifts his body from mine and positions himself on his knees to watch what he’s doing to me.

“Does that feel *good* Angel?” Wesley asks, half-whispering as he turns his eyes up to me briefly. I lick my lips but can’t answer, gritting my teeth together as he gives me another experimental tug. “You see I was never quite sure which way you’d like it. Hard, maybe, like this.” Another jerk and I toss my head to the side, an expletive breaking through my clenched jaw. “Or maybe you like to be teased.” Wesley releases my cock abruptly and I cry out, arching into hands that are no longer there, staring down at him helplessly.

Wesley seems to be waiting for something, looking down at my hard penis lying on my stomach, with his mouth parted and breath whistling from between his lips. “So which way is it, Angel?” he asks when I glare at him, and there’s something hard and familiar in his voice.

(Spike’s sneer is like a bucket of acid. Burning and twisting into my skin. He shouldn’t treat me with such disrespect. If I hadn’t turned Drusilla, he wouldn’t be walking in this time. Ungrateful brat.)

“I like it MY way,” I mutter harshly, dragging my body up from the bed so that I’m glaring directly into his eyes. “How I want it, when I want it, and where I want it.”

“And if I want it MY way?” Wesley arches an eyebrow, lips pursed. I smile slowly, half expecting him to jump up off the bed. I’d hate to have to chase him down, but I would. We’re too far in to stop now.

“Then we’ll do that too,” I reply. Wesley’s eyebrows draw together for a moment before his forehead smoothes out and he ducks his head to hide a small smile of his own. “But let’s just DO something.”

The ache of unfulfilled desire becomes acute when he nods and slides further down on the bed, until he his lying on his stomach between my spread legs. His breath moves across the back of my splayed thighs. That’s the real curse of having sex with a human, constant reminders of what I’m not, and at the same time opening a brief doorway into their heartbeats, the rush of their adrenaline, the absolute sincerity of their breathing.

My face curls into a scowl when I feel his lips on the back of my knee, just a gentle kiss but sensation burns a trail up to my groin and belly. Another kiss that’s just above the last, and I feel air rushing in and out of my throat. I’m sucking it in, as if it’s a need and I can’t go without.

I force my eyes to remain open so that I can watch him, ingraining the image into my mind for future nights when I will not be so lucky. Wesley’s eyelids are shut and he has an almost peaceful look on his face, as he moves his mouth along the inside of my thigh, occasionally nipping with his teeth, but always soothing it with the hot length of his tongue.

I have a brief, startling flash of fear that this will drag us all into hell and Angelus will be the one with the burning whip --- but I push it away. Of course this isn’t going to make me lose my soul. I’m unhappy as I have ever been and God, I can only think of the way his tongue swipes from side to side, his nose trailing up - up -- c’mon Wesley, don’t be a tease.

Maybe I say it out loud, maybe I don’t. I’m too caught up in the feel of his hot tongue slicking through the crease of my thigh, teasing along the edge of my balls. And his eyes are open now, watching me, waiting for my dam to break. Control is so slippery and wistful; I wonder why he’d want to make me lose it anyhow.

(Spike’s got a mouth like a whore. He’s always trying to push my buttons, push me further. Stupid boy. You’d think he was in love.)

I spread my legs further apart and reach down to grip the back of his neck, giving it a little tug in the direction I want him to go. Wesley’s eyes turn up to mine and I stop sucking in air, just looking at him as he moves to wrap his fingers around my erection and bring the tip of it to his lips.

Then there is a butterfly kiss that cuts through me as sharply as a razor. I cry out, wanting more, arching my hips up toward his mouth. Wesley pulls his lips away. Frustrated, I reach down again, but he catches my hands, pushes them down onto the mattress. I could easily break his hold, but there’s something about having my wrists shackled that has always gotten to the core of me.

Lips return and take in the tip of my cock, sucking hard. Sparks light behind my closed eyelids as pleasure shudders through my stomach. God yes, this is what I want. This is what I’ve *needed*. Not empty promises of someday, not being turned away every time I TRY to make the someday TODAY. This… this is something to live for. To *yearn* for.

Jerking my head to the side, I rub my cheek against the pillow, needing to feel the friction as Wesley’s mouth takes more of me in, tongue darting out to curl around the head. I’m saying things, mumbling words of praise and probably pleading a little with him as his mouth engulfs me again and again, burning me straight to the heart.

Humans are hot… so HOT. How can they stand to be this hot all the time? I’d burst into flames. I barely remember being warm.

God, I can have *his* mouth. My hips keep on thrusting up and he pulls back, dragging his lips along the underside of my penis, tugging on the skin. I’ve thought about it so many times that I should be ashamed. Those nights when I was all alone and the ceiling stared down at me, my palm would wander and I would picture Wesley’s pretty lips wrapped around me, sucking like he could stay between my legs all the time, twenty-four hours a day, for the rest of his life. But I’ve always schooled those desires into an uneasy, difficult friendship with him.

My stomach muscles tighten in spasms when his finger moves to tickle my anus, teasing me with the lightest of pressure.

“Fuck, Wes, that’s good.” He grunts in response to my exclamation, hollowing his cheeks as he takes my length in again. “If I had known…” God. Damn, he knows how to do this. My voice trails off. I have no idea what I meant to say. My vision is hazy, but I think I see him roll his eyes. Tension coils in my belly, tightest in my balls, spiraling up inside of me until my body is arched like a bow, and if I was human I’d be leaking sweat from my pores, resembling a waterfall.

“That’s it, Angel. That’s the way.” Wesley says over my heavy gasps and pants, lifting his mouth from me and staring at my expression. I can only imagine how I look, wanton and angry, wanting more - more - always MORE. One of his hands smoothes over the hard bunched muscles of my abdomen. The other jerks me quick and seriously, twisting his wrist to give it a little edge.

A panorama of images flashes through my brain.

(Spike, angry. Darla, devious. Dru, wistful. Buffy, crying. Cordelia, leaving.)

And then there’s Wesley, with his eyes on me in a way that breeds familiarity but speaks of something different. Of anger and wistfulness mixed together, swimming side by side with mixed emotions of contempt and love. Need and desperation; he is such a paradox, such a mass of confusion.

What to do?

‘Bad idea’ runs rampant in my head just before I climax. ‘This was such a bad, bad idea.’

But it’s his name I cry out when that delicious mouth is back, constricting me, pulling me straight toward a dark and hungry place. Trains crash lighter than this.


Like it’s the best name I’ve ever tasted.

* * *

Wesley shifts beside me, hand rubbing across my shoulder blades. He spends long minutes tracing my tattoo and my flesh moves beyond chilled, goose bumps rising up in a tide of awareness. His breathing is soft and carefully controlled, but his erection sits on the inside of my left thigh.

I’m not quite clear how we ended up in this position, but it was somewhere between him sucking me off and the short tussle when we tried to move onto what was next and couldn’t quite get past the shaking.

This isn’t as simple as I had hoped it would be. My chest is tight with emotions, when I didn’t want to feel a thing at all. His heart is pounding and I can tell by the way he is holding himself still that he’s trying to make it slow down. But his body is drawn with tension and unrelieved sexual arousal. I’m not so selfish that I’ll leave him hanging, even though I realize now that this probably shouldn’t have happened in the first place. I should have just jerked myself off like usual, even though I wanted more than that tonight. Even though I wanted HIM.

Things will NOT be the same after this.

“Wesley?” I whisper. His hand pauses, leaving a half drawn circle on my shoulder.

“Hmm?” His response is mostly hesitant and I feel him drawing back from me, pulling inside himself in that way he’s learned. It’s an area I can relate to. The survival of the fittest or those who don’t let their heart get broken.

“Do you have anything we can use for lubrication?” I ask quickly, turning my head slightly to the side. Wesley’s breath catches and he moves so that his head is hanging over mine, filling my line of sight. He searches my eyes for a long moment before his mouth parts, lips dry.

“I do,” he says. Eyes still on mine, and with his chest pressing firmly into my back, he reaches around me, toward the dresser drawer. I move to watch his arm muscles stretch taut and then release as he pulls it open and slips out a short, fat tube filled with clear jell. “How do you want to do this?” Wesley asks me, clutching the tube tightly and remaining in his looming position over me.

“Your way,” I answer and his eyebrows flick up, and then back down. Devilish and surprised. And then he is behind me again and I lift my right leg up so that it is bent at an odd angle on the bed, foot pressed flat on the mattress.

(“I can’t imagine someone capable of this.” Wesley stares down at a gruesome photograph, swallowing hard. The side of his neck is bare, collar undone. “Even you’d be surprised at what some people are capable of,” I tell him.)

Like love. Odd how many people are capable of creating that dangerous emotion. And then breaking it, molding it into something completely different.

There’s a snap, the cap being released from the tube and the sound of the jell being pressed out, presumably onto Wesley’s hand. My body tenses as I feel the heat of his fingers approaching me, and then smoothing the cold substance across me.

God, I want this.

It doesn’t matter just how wrong it will be in the daylight. After all, the sun never touches me.

His breath hisses out and I smell his arousal rise tenfold. His heartbeat throbs in my ear and I’m nearly delirious with it, counting each rush of blood it sends into his body, into his penis, which presses against me, hot and overwhelming. Crave it on my tongue as I close my eyes and press my body back into his.

I think Wesley’s still in love with me.

No wonder he hates love so much.

* * *

My clothes make me itch, like I shouldn’t be wearing them at all. And my thighs are sore in a way they haven’t been in nearly a century.

It’s been a very long one hundred years.

Wesley’s not asleep. I can hear him in his wakefulness, lying on his stomach, eyes watching me dress. I imagine their alertness, but play the coward. There are just some things I’ve learned to be afraid of.

The sun will rise soon, and I plan to be gone long before it does. Fingers shaking, I finish hooking the buttons on my shirt into their proper holes, adjust it against my body and reach down for my leather jacket. It’s coarse beneath my sensitized fingers after feeling every part of Wesley’s form moving against my own.

(A thrust. A groan. Wesley’s breath is sweet on my face. Biting is not an option.)

I swallow hard.

Love. Break. Forget. I remind myself this, tugging the jacket over my shoulders and thinking about how little time there is left to get gone. It would be so easy to stay.

“Angel,” Wesley says clearly and I nearly jump out of my skin. Turning, I face up to what we’ve done. It’s there, in the way he is leaning forward on his elbows, craning his head around to look at me over his shoulder. His back is so smooth and bare, flushed with sweat. My mouth waters, just looking at him.

Please be saying goodbye. “How many more after me, Angel? Which night, which day of the year are you going to break again and need someone to fuck your demon away?”

I flinch beneath the bitterness of his words, lips pulling back across my teeth in a grimace of self-hatred. “You don’t know me,” I say in the standard fuck-off voice. “Fucking doesn’t equal knowing.”

I think Wesley still hates me. The bed shifts as he moves across it to sit at the end, leaning forward in his naked state, hands cupping his knees.

“I never claimed that I wanted to,” is his rebuttal. My jaw tightens, nearly cracks. Fighting the demon is a busy business. You can never let your guard down.

“Then there’s nothing more to say here.”

Leave. Have to get out.

Wesley’s eyes don’t shift from mine. He doesn’t even blink as I walk backwards toward the door, like I expect a stake to slam between my ribs if I’m not looking. And I do. I hate that I do. But Wesley has changed from the crushing, stumbling fool he was a year and a half ago and is now always suspect.

(Wesley’s gaze. Downcast and edgy like there’s always something left to do. Fuck you, it says. Fuck you and everything about you.)

His bottom lip trembles, but not from emotion, just the sucking in of air as I twist the doorknob without looking at it. He’s gonna speak. I know it. Don’t, Wesley, just let it GO.

“So this is it,” he says at last, voice harsh with accusation. “Had your fun? Time to pack it all up and leave? Imagine what Cordelia would say.”

“Fuck you, Wes.”

Eyes burning with blue hate. I’ve been to hell before. Doesn’t matter. He opens his mouth and tosses it out. “We’ve already gone there.”

Stand off. My clothes are too tight. And they still itch.

(Wesley’s tongue, curling around the head of my cock. Eyes turned up to me. Does he realize that necrophilia is illegal in all 50 states? I’d laugh, but I’m too busy fucking his mouth.)

“Yeah. We did.” I heave a sigh. My chest shakes with it, like it DOES matter. “Wesley. It was clear before this happened what I wanted from you. Did you think we’d have some happy ending or…”

Oh Wesley gets it, Wesley understands. But he’s just not *taking* it. There’s something to be said about a man who is sick of bleeding.

“I thought maybe we’d become friends again. We USED to be that. I wanted… it all back. Why *can’t* we be friends?” He shakes his head and a cynical smile flashes across his face. “Friends who fuck, at the very least.” I can’t speak, throat clogged with the want of something I’m not willing to think about right now. This was harmless fun. That’s all. “Angel, I’ve been helping you again. Doesn’t that count for something? I’m bloody tired of being punished like a little boy who stole lunch money on the playground. And don’t tell me this wasn’t just another way to get to me --- using what I used to want so badly.”

‘Stop.’ But it’s not going to. I can’t help but speak.

“You stole my SON.”

(Baby boy. Like something GOOD exists in this world. Something worth saving. Grabs my finger, squeezes real tight. Got his eyes from his mother.)

“And you said that was bygones.” Wesley throws back at me, muscles shifting in his thighs as if he wants to stand but is fighting himself. Good. Get control.

“I’m not trying to hurt you. Damn, Wes, it might be the end of the world and you’re thinking about your love life?” My head jerks with the words, like a puppet being pulled on by the strings he made for himself. “It was just some fun. You knew that.”

Wesley shrugs and turns his eyes away. The shadows shift over his face, concealing his emotion from me. “You’re not hurting me. We’ve been past that for a very long time.”

How long is a *long time*? I shut the thought inside my brain and lock it away. I’ve fucked plenty of men before, but it never actually meant anything. And now--no, everything we did was right. I won’t think that it wasn’t.

I nod, a clipped movement of my head. Grind my teeth together and think: ‘I come here to escape love’s kick and get hooked just as bad.’

“I’m glad,” I say in a stiff voice. I’m gonna break the doorknob off in a millisecond.

“Goodbye, Angel.” Wesley says firmly and I think about his ever-changing surface. I never know who he is or where to stand except for the closest place to the battle-ax. There’s always a what-if there between us. He used to want something. Wesley used to want me. And then he hated me as much as I hated him. Now he’s acting like I’ve pulled something from deep inside that has been long buried and I’m using it against him.

“Tomorrow, Wesley.” Because we can never forget what *has* to matter most.

I turn, open the door and leave. There is nothing for us in this place.

He said I couldn’t hurt him.

After I close the door behind me, I listen through the wood surface for a moment. Breath being pulled into lungs. Heart steady. Nothing to give me a clue. I go straight into the room next to his. Jerk the window open and climb out, grappling against the side of the house briefly to get a good handle, and immediately duck my head toward his window, just to see him.

Make sure he’s all right. It won’t take long, I tell myself. And it’s certainly not a sign of deep affection. Just the basic need to see who I’ve done harm to *this* time.

Denial is contagious.

He’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, as motionless as a statue carved 200 years ago. Slowly crumbling. Wesley doesn’t cry, doesn’t even whimper, just leans forward and cups his head with his palms. His back curls over and the knobs of his spine stand out starkly in the moonlight. So human. So breakable, but ready for it.

It was never my intention for emotions to become involved.

His words echo in my head: “How many more after me, Angel? Which night, which day of the year are you going to break again and need someone to fuck your demon away?”

What is it about him and I that we can’t stop stealing pieces of each other?

I lick my lips and quickly pull myself back inside. It feels more wrong than I like to watch him when Wesley doesn’t know. He’s fine. I’m fine. We’re both gonna be perfectly fine. Fucking is just another form of moving on and besides, no one ever died because they couldn’t make up their mind.

(Wesley. Leaning forward over his desk. Glasses bent on his face. Something. There’s just a little something and it won’t go away.)



Situation Normal All Fucked Up © Princess Twilite (February, 2003)

Back to Previous Years Story Index