"I never really thought about it," Angel admits, canting his head to the side. "I mean... I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I knew it was a common practice now, but it didn't really strike me as odd."
Wesley nods; Angel isn't circumcised. He's seen the evidence before, when he disturbed Angel's drugged sleep state. But of course he wouldn't have been, when he was alive, and it still isn't as common a practice on the other side of the pond as it is here; Wesley himself is still possessed of a foreskin, though if Virginia had been just that tiny bit more spoiled she might have got her way and talked him into 'having it done.'
"Should he be? I mean, should we get him, y'know... snipped? Fred says it's more hygienic." Angel tears his eyes away from his son's face long enough to look plaintively at Wes, and the infant kicks his father soundly in the nose for even thinking it.
"I think his feelings on the matter are rather clear," Wes chuckles. "Come on, it's a beautiful day, and his aunties are waiting to take him to the park." There is a set to his lips and a quirk to his brow that makes Angel grin like an idiot as he finishes putting on Connor's tiny little sneakers.
"Will they be gone long?" he asks eagerly, looking very much like an overgrown, overexcited puppy. "I mean, er..."
"Hours, I should think," Wes replies, barely stifling his own gleeful expression. "Cordy says there's a carnival, and they're meeting up with some of the others from playgroup. Connor's a bit young yet to appreciate the sights and sounds, but -" His lips curve upwards as he lets the rest of the sentence fade into thin air. But we'll be alone, for hours, he adds silently.
"About time," Cordy huffs, all but snatching Connor from his father's arms. "We're gonna be late, and Marissa's gonna think I stood her up again. Men!"
Fred smiles sympathetically. Marissa is a single mom, and her daughter is in Connor's playgroup, but she's also a talent agent, and she's taken a special interest in Cordy's body... of work. Ahem. "We'll be home before sundown," she says, and giggles when she sees both Angel's and Wesley's eyes flit to the clock on the wall, calculating just how many hours are left of daylight. "An' we'll knock before we come bustin' into any rooms that might happen to have closed doors," she adds pointedly.
"My girls ready to ride?" Gunn asks, striding into the hotel lobby with a smirk. "Your chariot awaits."
Cordy squeals and runs to Gunn's side, placing a big sloppy wet kiss on his cheek. "You're a genius! We would have been late if we were walking!" The idea of piling Connor and his things into Gunn's truck and even riding bitch, straddling the gear box, is far preferable to being late, and Cordy disappears out the front doors with an armload of Connor, leaving Fred and Gunn to handle the diaper bag and the umbrella stroller.
Gunn looks at Angel and Wesley, who are leaning against the reception counter, trying for nonchalant and missing by a solid mile, and shakes his head. "Damn," he comments. "Y'all look like you can't wait to see the back of us."
"Charles, of course that's not -"
"Don't bother, English," Gunn grins. "Just do what you gotta do. Angel, take care of my boy. We're gone," he tells Fred, who nods and slings the diaper bag over her shoulder, following him outside.
The hotel is blissfully empty. Lorne is busy getting ready for the next Grand Reopening at Caritas, and they haven't seen him all week.
Angel waits until he's sure he's heard Gunn's truck drive away before closing the distance between them, wrapping Wes in his arms and laughing. "God, I thought they'd never leave," he says, his laughter made just the slightest bit manic by the nerves that make his stomach do flip-flops when Wesley laughs, too.
"Shall we try again?" Wes asks, dipping his head to bury his face in Angel's shoulder. Four times in the past two weeks they've managed to get as far as the bedroom door before something wholly unsexy and inconvenient has halted their progress. Two years they've been building up to this, and Wesley thinks he might die if he doesn't lay his hands on Angel's bare flesh this very moment.
Angel looks like he's about to make a flippant remark, but he apparantly thinks better of it, instead grabbing Wesley's hand and all but dragging him up the stairs.
"Take that as a yes, then, shall I?" Wes smiles indulgently.
"Where did we leave off?" Angel asks. "Last time, we were... we were here," he says, leaning against the frame of the door to his rooms. Wes nods and presses Angel against the door frame, taking his lips in a kiss that begins chastely. But Angel craves the warmth he can feel rolling off the other man in waves, and he parts his lips, running his tongue along Wesley's to encourage him to do the same. There's no conflict involved, something Angel appreciates more than he thought he would. The women he's been with, primarily Buffy and Darla, were all about dominating him, or, at times, being dominated by him. With Wes, there's none of that power struggle. With Wes, it's just love.
Angel shifts his weight subtly, just enough to throw Wesley off balance so he can position him just the way he wants him, and right now that's in motion, progressing towards the bed. He hasn't been this nervous about taking someone to his bed since he was a virgin, a good two-hundred-*cough* years ago, but he's pretty sure he's shaking just a little bit when Wesley eases them onto the bed and places his hand just so on Angel's hip. He's not sure when his hipbone became a sexual organ, but his body responds as though it were, his nerves singing with electricity and his cock getting just that little bit harder.
There are too many clothes, and Angel says so. Wes laughs, pulling his own dark green polo shirt - the one Cordy bought him, that makes his eyes look even more intensely blue than should be humanly possible, that he wears all the time now because Angel told him he likes it - over his head before setting to work on Angel's dark purple button-down. Wesley's body against him, Wesley's nimble fingers releasing him from his garments... "Your hands aren't broken," Wes points out dryly, and Angel snaps out of his reverie to give his lover a sheepish grin before seizing him by the belt buckle. Wes groans, and Angel whimpers, because suddenly every single finger on his right hand is a thumb and how does a guy his age not know how to work a belt?
Wes pushes Angel away, gently, to slide his shirt down over his broad, muscular shoulders. "Allow me," he says, making fast work of the cagey, elusive belt, and then Angel's, and then their pants and shorts are gone and finally there's naked and Angel is terrified. "Easy," Wes says, noticing the tension in Angel's body. "Relax, love, I'm not going to hurt you, and you're not going to hurt me."
Angel takes a deep, unneccessary breath, and reminds himself that Wes is right. "I think I'll start," Angel says, mouthing kisses down Wesley's stomach, "by not hurting you... with my mouth." He buries his face in the nest of curls between Wesley's legs, his ear pressed firmly to his lover's thigh to listen to the strong, healthy pulse that ebbs and flows there. Later, he'll ask Wes if he can drink from that toned, pale thigh, but right now it is his anchor. It's been a long, long time since the person in his bed was of both the warm and willing category, and the male one. Actually, the more he thinks on it, the more he realizes that with the exception of a drunken grope that led nowhere - thankfully - with Doyle, Wes is the only living man he's ever been intimate with. It's kinda daunting.
He opens his eyes, opens his mouth... and starts laughing.
Wesley looks somewhat less than amused. "Angel, I find myself forced to question your grasp of sexual ettiquette."
Angel's eyes are watering; he's laughing too hard, and he's choking and wheezing on air he doesn't even need. "Look like..." he gasps out. "Fred said -"
"I'm not going to thump you on the back," Wes scowls. "No matter how curious I might be as to how you and Fred managed to stumble upon the topic of my genitalia, and exactly what she might have had to say about it." He sits up, crosses his arms, and - is that? yes, it is - pouts.
It's a good ten minutes before Angel can speak, and Wes is beyond livid. Partly because his lover was laughing at his erection - which he knows to be rather unlaughable, in that it is unremarkable. He is not flattering himself when he considers it to be on the high end of normal, in both length and girth, and he is utterly perplexed as to what has caused Angel's fit of the giggles - and partly because the bloody thing hasn't the sense to shy away from this unwanted attention. It's just standing there, pert and chipper as you please, waiting patiently for Angel to pick up where he left off.
"I'll be damned," Angel says, shaking his head. It's an odd turn of phrase for him, since he is more or less damned, but Wesley raises his eyebrows expectantly.
"You bloody well will be if you don't explain yourself," Wes says sourly. "Please do continue. You were saying something about Fred and my penis?"
Angel closes his eyes. He just can't look at it, or he'll start up again. "We were talking about circumcision," he reminds Wes. "I told you Fred said it was more hygienic."
Wesley nods slowly. "I assure you, I have impeccable personal hygiene."
"No, I know," Angel agrees quickly. "But she also said that when they weren't cut, they kinda looked like..." he trails off, his sides aching and his stomach shaking as he struggles to compose himself.
Wes's frown begins to fade, turning first into a smirk, then a smile. "A little bishop in a turtleneck?" he offers, trying to fight the urge to laugh along with Angel, but it is too late. As soon as the words pass his lips, they both fall about, laughing helplessly. Somewhere in the laughter, Angel finds himself fascinated with the movement of Wesley's muscles underneath his skin, and he calms as he focuses on the twitching and spasming, mesmerized.
"You might have noticed yours looks just the sa- oh," Wesley says, as Angel's tongue darts out to wet a patch of silky skin sliding over quivering abdominal muscle.
"Never came face to face with my own... clergyman," Angel grins, wrapping his hand around the base of Wesley's persistant erection.
"Give my regards to the good Reverend," Wesley murmurs vaguely as he is enveloped by the cool damp of Angel's mouth, lacing his fingers through impeccably coiffed hair and thrusting his hips involuntarily. Two years, Pryce, he tells himself. Two years of waiting, and it's going to be over before it starts if you don't smarten up.
Angel protests, but only a little, when Wesley urges him up and away from his goal. "Wes, baby, I wanna," he whispers, and Wes thinks it's nice to be someone's baby when it's not Cordy and it's not because he's bleeding, even if it sounds a little foreign coming from Angel.
"We aren't all gifted with vampiric stamina," Wes reminds Angel as he nips his way down Angel's chest. He pauses when he reaches Angel's navel and glances up through his eyelashes, which Angel personally thinks are way longer than should be legal - it makes for an unfair advantage when it comes to puppy dog eyes - and blows gently. Angel squirms, and his weakness is exposed. He's ticklish. Wesley catalogs this for later use before dipping his head to lick the length of Angel's shaft, which has gone slightly limp during the brief period of no stimulation, but is already coming round under this new barrage of sensation.
"Sure as hell are gifted, though," Angel sighs contentedly. Wesley feels impossibly hot, feverish and on the verge of spontaneously combusting, but his lips leave Angel's cock feeling cold and empty each time they break contact with his flesh. Then he's thrusting into Wesley's mouth, and there should be sonnets and limericks and pages and pages of prose about Wesley's mouth. Hot and wet and so careful, tentative, like he doesn't know what he's doing, and it occurs to Angel that maybe he doesn't. Maybe this is the first time Wesley's ever - and then Angel can't think any more, because there's one hand cupping his balls and one hand discreetly applying oil and gentle pressure to his entrance and one hand wrapped around his - no, that's too many hands, but there's no way Wes has managed to get take him in that deep, is there? He's got a gag reflex, and a strange chemical dependency on that stuff they call oxygen.
Or, maybe not, with the gag reflex, Angel thinks dumbly as he looks down to see that yes, Wes has swallowed him very nearly to the root and is bobbing his head in time with the thrusting of the two - no, three - wait, four fingers that have slipped inside him. "Wes," Angel growls, grabbing a hank of dark almost-curly hair and pulling Wesley up onto his knees. "Fuck me already."
Wesley does not need to be asked twice; whatever excess oil - and Angel doesn't know where Wes even got it from, because he doesn't own anything that smells of sandalwood and roses - that is left on his hand is applied hastily to his aching erection, and he's pressing against Angel's entrance so very gently.
"Wes," Angel repeats, and this time it's more of a whine than a growl. "Fuck me now." His hands reach for Wesley's hips and he's rewarded with a burning sensation and a distinct feeling that he's about to split down the middle. He bites back a whimper, and Wes leans down to sooth him with kisses on his face and chest, and whispered apologies even though he begged him, ordered him to do it that way, and then physically forced him to. "I'm okay," he assures Wes, and when Wesley strokes his face with his thumb, the palm of his hand cupping his cheek, there are tears he didn't realize he was crying.
Wesley's eyes are bright with tears, too, and he realizes it's not the pain of entry that's got him tearing up like a virgin on prom night, it's that this is a big fucking deal. The biggest. This is him, and Wes, and it's been two long years in the making, and two long weeks since they gave up pretending it wasn't there.
Angel is terrified.
This is real.
It's strange that the scrawny - albeit, fairly well muscled - former Watcher in his bed is capable of striking so much fear into him. It's not that he's scared Wes will hurt him - he knows he wouldn't, even though he's maybe the one person in the world with the power to - but that he's scared Wes will make him hurt others. Angelus and the curse are always in the back of his mind; one night with Buffy brought Angelus out to play, and looking back he realizes he didn't even really love her. He was in love with the idea of her, something beautiful and pure and all his, but there was never anything real between them, never anything like this, and if something that superficial could set his inner psychopath on the road to destruction, he's got every reason to be petrified at the thought of what being with Wes could do.
Right now he's operating under the assumption - and yeah, so he's heard that catchy phrase about the word 'assume' a thousand or so times, whatever - that being scared shitless of what might happen is enough to keep that perfect happiness moment at bay, and crossing his fingers and his toes. Wes, for his part, doesn't seem to realize he could even make Angel that happy - he's got this thing where he always thinks he's the fall-back guy, and Angel's not proud of the fact that maybe he's unconsciously nurtured that idea at times, starting with that time he called him Doyle. But as scared as Angel is, he's not telling Wes to stop, to pull out, this is wrong, it's a mistake, it's dangerous. Because it's right. Maybe it's dangerous, but it's not a mistake.
"Are you still with me?" Wes asks softly, his breath hot and moist in Angel's ear, and he moves just right and Angel just about jumps out of his skin.
"Yeah, just thinking," Angel replies, his hips thrusting up as Wes hits that sweet spot again.
Wes chuckles. "If you're still thinking, I daresay I'm not doing my part very well," he says, but the last of this is cut off in a strangled groan as Angel twists his hips just so.
"New rule," Angel announces, as though there were old rules to be added to. "No self-deprecating in bed. You're - ah, god, right there - you're doing fine."
"Fine?" Wes asks, and is that a - yeah, it's a smirk, and then he's driving into him, hard. "Do try not to sound to enthusiastic."
Enthusiastic? "You want enthusiastic?" Angel gasps, and rolls them over on the bed so Wesley is pinned against the mattress.
Wesley's eyes roam up and then back down Angel's body, and a slow hiss of air escapes his lungs. "Fuck," he says finally, and Angel takes that as not only a yes, but permission to assume full control of the situation as well, because the lazy grin on Wesley's face now is pretty indicative that his brain just took complete leave of his body. Control is an illusion Angel needs to allow himself right now, anyway, so he rocks his body hard and fast, and Wes is apparently there enough to snake a hand between them to pump Angel's cock, because there it is, and Angel's suddenly losing that illusion again. He shouts Wesley's name and a few jets of lukewarm semen pool in the hollow of Wesley's stomach; his hands fly to Angel's hips, gripping him tight enough to bruise - though the bruises will fade in a few hours, if they ever make it to the surface at all - as he thrusts up into him and moans his name. Angel thinks 'complete abandon' is probably the prettiest thing he's ever seen on Wes, even better than his Eureka look and his dorkiest sheepish grin combined, and he's suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling of warmth spreading throughout him from the inside.
temperature cools Wes's come inside him, he's human by injection. The phrasing is crude, and he's sure if he thinks about it for a while he can come up with something more poetic, but if the shoe fits.
Angel rolls to one side, curling his body around Wesley's and pressing his ear to his lover's chest to listen as his heartbeat and breathing return to normal. "I like that we can laugh," he says suddenly, and is rewarded with a very puzzled look in a pair of very blue eyes. "Before, during, maybe after when you can think again. It's... healthy, I think. Good for my soul." Like Wes is.
Wes chuckles drowsily, drawing Angel closer to him and kissing his forehead. "I like it, too," he says, but he is already drifting off into post-coital slumber. He hasn't been sleeping much lately, Angel muses, always poring over that one translation he can't seem to wrap his head around or maybe just doesn't want to believe, and maybe for now sleep is more important than laughter.
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