Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This
Title: Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This
Setting: London, 1880
Smut_69 challenge prompt word: #59 Best Friends
My Smut Table
Disclaimer: Joss, ME, Fox yadayada own the characters; I'm just messin'.
Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This
The heat, the pain, it's almost unbearable. And yet, there's something reckless, exciting about it. And sensual. He feels his blood thrum within him, racing to his face, surging to his cock. He hears his blood sing. Wasn't expecting this. It confuses him, thrills him.
Feigning anger, he jerks his hand away and glowers into those dark brown eyes. "Touch me again…" he growls. It sounds like a threat, feels like an invitation.
There's a ringing in his ears now, makes it difficult to make sense of the words. He watches in wonder as another hand thrusts into the light, penetrates the beam. Slaughter. Deviant. The sweet stench of burning flesh fills his nostrils; the whisps of smoke fascinate him.
As the hand is withdrawn, his gaze is pulled back to the oh-so-knowing eyes. They glint with knowledge, with amusement, with something his former self would have thought unspeakable. The habits of his human lifetime are hard to break; he still goes through the motions of breathing, gasping, even now there is no need of it. He finds himself panting as he stares, as he stretches his hand out once more and submits it to the hell of the sunbeam.
The laughter is like a contagion. It infects him, takes him, makes him giddy. But the touch of the hand on his shoulder signals something else entirely, something from which he fears, hopes, there will be no cure. Best of friends. He hears his own laughter catch in his throat as he drops his hand to his side, still mesmerised by those eyes.
"Best of friends" he echoes.
"Perhaps more… what do you think? Hmm?"
Fingertips trace gently from throat to belly, his dishevelled shirt making access to his skin simplicity itself. Don't stop there, no need to stop there! The desperate words bounce around inside his skull as the fingers pause at the buttons of his pants.
He nods, a slight movement, but enough. "More.."
"Show me you want it. Tell me!" The tone is hard, insistent.
And he does. The grabbing, the tearing, the biting, the scratching. He wants it all, and he gets it. As they crash to the floor, wrestling and ripping at each other's clothes, greedy for the feel of flesh on flesh, flesh inside flesh, the affirmation is a gentle whisper in his thoughts. "I want it. I want you." But the words fly from his mouth almost like a battle cry. "I want it. I want you" he yells.
+++
He sits bolt upright in the chair, suddenly awake, eyes wide in disbelief, in shocking realisation; erection straining urgently, uncomfortably, against the rough fabric of his pants.
"God no. Please, no!"
But there is no God and there is no escape.
His eyes flick to Drusilla sleeping peacefully on the rumpled bed. His saviour, his love. Then to the figure lounging in the chair opposite him. Angelus raises an eyebrow, nods towards the door, makes as if to stand.
No, not ready, not yet. Oh, but how he wants it, wants him!
He lowers his gaze; shakes his head, a slight movement, but enough.
Angelus shrugs, smirks, settles back into his chair.
They both know it is only a matter of time.
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