Overworked

Perfect Match

Love's Ruin

 

Rating: R – m/m sexual content

Summary: Angel/Wesley – Wesley is working out in more ways than one

Spoilers: Set AtS S5

Disclaimer: They belong to others, I just like playing with them.

Feedback: Always – need to feed the Ho

Distribution: Asking will probably get you your wish

Every night Angel walked the unfamiliar corridors of Wolfram & Hart, trying to find something about this steel, glass and plastic monolith that would make it feel like home. The knowledge that his every word, movement and maybe even thought was being recorded, archived and analysed didn’t help. Home was a place where you felt safe, at peace and free. Wolfram & Hart was far from this.

There was one thing that reminded him of home--his family. Lorne, Gunn, Fred and Wesley. His thoughts drifted to Wesley as he continued down the darkened passages. He smiled at the memories of the few, rare times they had been together, shared each other’s bodies, found unimaginable pleasures. It wasn’t love--they both knew that--but it was more than a friendship. They knew each other in ways that no one else could comprehend, intimacy at a primal level.

Finally making it back to the main lobby, he noticed a glow of light from a room at the end of the corridor--his private training room. Making his way there, he could hear the pounding and kicking, the sounds of exertion and effort. He knew who it was even before recognizing the familiar scent of blood and sweat. Wesley.

He entered the room, choosing to keep himself hidden in the shadows. Rarely did he have the opportunity to admire this man and his body. He watched as an artist does, memorizing every detail, every line, every scar, etching it into his mind, this picture of perfection. Wesley’s firm muscles pumped and strained with effort, sweat glistening over his bare chest, the dark sweatpants riding low over his hips. His flow of movements were more like a dance than a workout, flowing, merging into a pattern all of their own.

Angel welcomed the sudden feeling of arousal, the gradual spread of desire through his body. It hinted at possible pleasures he rarely let himself feel. The rhythmic sounds of the punches and kicks, like blood pumping through veins, gradually made him hard.

Wesley punched and kicked the old leather bag, practicing different movements in various combinations, honing his skills, developing new ones. It had been a long day-- they all were now. Tied to a desk, sifting through endless piles of paperwork, running a department that he hadn’t had time to familiarize himself with, surrounded by people he couldn’t trust.

More often than not Wesley found himself finishing his days working out in Angel’s private training room. If he were honest with himself, he’d admit that his home was little more than a place to sleep and store his possessions. Usually he would find himself alone, reading a good book and occasionally sipping a Scotch.

Most nights, working out gave him a chance to unwind and exercise, a place to forget about work and his non-existent personal life, but not tonight. When he thought about it he often laughed at what passed for his personal life, always seeming to end with heartache. Except with Angel. And what was it with Angel? Wesley preferred women-- he knew that. He’d never been attracted to men at all, but Angel was the exception. He needed him, wanted him in every imaginable way.

He couldn’t see him, yet he knew he was there, somewhere in the shadows. He’d been there for a while, he was pretty sure of that. It was during times like these that he felt unsettled, as if a deadly predator was stalking him. He intimately understood this predator’s intentions, and it excited him.

Stopping for a quick break, Wesley pulled out the bottled water and took a few small sips, slowly poured a little over his head, raking it through his hair and letting it run down his body, cooling his skin.

“Enjoying the view?” he said, still with his back to the vampire.

Angel slowly moved away from the wall, gradually emerging from the shadows, brown eyes slowly sweeping up over his body, seeming to leave trails of heat behind them, until he finally met Wesley’s gaze. “Yes.” The look caused a shiver to run through Wesley’s body. Angel’s eyes flared, his craving to consume this man growing with each passing moment.

Angel moved swiftly, and suddenly Wesley found himself pressed hard against the wall, a cool tongue lapping at the drops of water on his skin. Hungrily, Angel whispered into Wesley’s ear, “Do you want to spar?”

“Yes,” was all he could say as he forced Angel around, now pinning him to the wall, their lips meeting and fighting for dominance. Breathless, Wesley pulled away, stepping back to look at Angel. Their eyes said it all, the blazing of emotion, lust and hunger, the plain truth about what they were to each other.

Wesley revelled in the sensations that Angel caused in his body. Just a look could light the fire, a touch turned it into an inferno. His hands slowly rubbed Angel’s chest, removing the silk shirt, exposing Angel’s pale skin.

Angel’s hands rested lightly over the band of Wesley’s sweats, teasingly sweeping over fabric and skin. The effect drew Wesley closer, trying to intensify these sensations. Angel’s fingers dipped under the band, moving downward, taking the garment with them.

Angel’s remaining clothes became an unwanted barrier. Wesley’s fingers quickly released the belt and zipper, the trousers sliding down. His hands played Angel’s body like a fine instrument, hitting the right notes and chords.

Angel strained to retain his control--things were happening too fast. He pushed away from the wall, breaking contact with Wes, a disappointed moan escaping his lips. He raised his fingers, gently brushing them against Wesley’s lips. “Sh… come with me…” Grabbing a bottle of massage oil off the table, he silently led Wesley over to the mat area, finally turning to share a soft kiss. Wes followed Angel’s lead, soon finding himself lying on the mat, Angel crouching low over him.

Wesley watched as Angel carefully tipped the bottle. Small drops, then a fine thread of oil poured onto his throat, slowly snaking down over his chest and abdomen. At first he was shocked by its coolness and the sensation of it slowly spreading over him. The viscous liquid moved of its own accord, pooling in places, in others dripping off onto the mat.

Angel’s hands kneaded and worked the oil into his skin, strong fingers easing the taut muscles of his chest. Desire grew inside him, building, growing, as Angel’s hands worked his body…. Wesley closed his eyes and abandoned himself to the sensations. Angel traced light patterns on his skin, pinched and rolled his nipples, slid his fingers down Wesley’s abdomen. Wes held his breath in anticipation, never quite certain what was coming next.

Angel deliberately emptied the remainder of the oil over Wesley’s already slick body, large pools forming on the mat. Finally he lowered himself full-length onto Wesley. Gently at first, then more firmly, more deliberately, he rubbed their bodies together, the sensations flaring at this new contact. Their now heated flesh feasting off of the friction, the skin contact, hips thrusting harder against each other, seeking more. The intensity continued to build as the two bodies rubbed together, rolling and grinding, both slickened with oil…

For Angel, the need to be consumed became overpowering, to be Wesley’s as much as, in other encounters, Wes had been his. To seek a partnership as equals, both giving and receiving each other’s pleasure.

“God, I want you now,” he whispered, their eyes finally meeting. “Please.” Without thought Wesley willingly availed himself to Angel’s pleasure, to be filled and consumed.

“No. I need you,” Angel pleaded, rolling himself over and pulling Wesley on top. “In me.”

The realisation of what was happening surprised Wesley. “Angel?” he questioned, unsure if he understood what was being offered, but Angel’s eyes held the answer, the darkened orbs glazed with desperate need.

God he loved this body. The feel of his skin, the coolness, the intoxicating mix of arousal, sweat and oil and now he wanted to consume it even more.

Wesley ground his body into Angel’s, overwhelmed by the sensations of skin on skin. He slowly moved down sucking, nipping and kissing, mouth, neck, chest and nipples. Angel’s body became taut with desire, moans of pleasure coming from him. Wesley leaned up and devoured that mouth, taking pleasure from his lips and tongue. Angel’s hips lifted, desperately seeking Wesley, only to find his gentle fingers working and preparing him.

Wes slowly opened his eyes to see Angel gazing back. “Now,” Angel said. “Please.”

Swiftly their bodies melded as one, an explosion of fire, lust and dreams. At that moment Angel abandoned the façade that everyone knew, and allowed himself to be controlled by another, knowing he was safe in doing so. His senses savoured the moment, the physical fulfilment and emotional release. He hadn’t found perfect happiness, he’d found his perfect match.

Angel looked up to see the face of everything he wanted, everything he needed. Wesley.

Title: Loves Ruin
Author: Overworked
Rating: NC17 – m/m sexual content, torture, bloodplay and all round Angelus type stuff
Summary: Wesley/Angelus/Angel
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: They belong to others, I just like playing with them.
Feedback: Always – need to feed the Ho
Distribution: Asking will probably get you your wish

There it is, that feeling of cool wet lips sliding over and down my unfaithful member, a

tongue sweeping over the shallow cuts that have been made along the shaft, lapping at the

blood. I'm achingly hard, unable to be satisfied, my own battle lying between the

overwhelming desire for release and the agony of denial. I am at his mercy. I am that

which is everything he hates about his souled self; my fate will be an exorcism of his

soul.

This body of mine is weak and has easily fallen prey to unwanted desires of my torture --

there seems to be little I can do about that. His greatest satisfaction is in the power he

holds over me. Angelus is playing me like an instrument in the hands of a true master,

skilfully and with artistry. He leaves no stone unturned or torment untried.

My tortured flesh still hangs from shackled arms, wrists torn, bone now exposed. There

is no relief, my feet barely touch the hard wooden floors -- any movement I make

becomes self-inflicted pain. Just the look, that soulless leer of my tormentor, tears into

my very core. Angelus knows this body nearly as well as he does his own. Night-filled

hours of pleasure spent together have given him insights into his captive -- the right

touch, word or even memory always at his command. He knows about all those things I

hide so well, that only my dreams know about. The lonely nights where the danger and

exhilaration of walking the path with the devil come only in slumber. The adrenaline

rush of brushing past death, being touched by the hand of evil, dark desires that are

buried deeply within.

Earlier the nightmare had unfolded before my eyes. The unforseen return of Angelus had

been followed by the slow torture and agonizing deaths of Fred and Gunn. He laughed as

I continued my struggle to free myself, offering my own life for theirs, begging him to

stop. He had made me watch, every action orchestrated for my benefit, the screaming,

flailing limbs, blood, gore and humiliation, the terrified look in their eyes, that final

realization of the inevitable. The slow approach of death, bleeding from their wounds,

the blood pooling and dripping beneath their hanging bodies, that final release of breath

as their bodies succumbed to their grizzly end.

Oh, yes, I understand. I understand everything with great clarity. Who and what he is,

what he is capable of, that fine line he walked ensouled. I lived too long in the shadow of

a Watcher's ignorance believing what they chose to tell us. For they saw things as black

and white, fixed, never to change. What I found in reality was a world largely based on

mythology where many of the facts remained hidden. The line between evil and good

was closer than one could imagine. Where what we have come to be today, is the sum of

our whole existence whether human or vampire…

So here I find myself near death, bloody and beaten, knowing and understanding my fate,

facing my lover, my executioner. The dark eyes bore into my very soul, laying claim to

my life, yet I still hope and pray to find in his eyes a glimpse, a spark of the man I love.

It is this I desperately grasp at what I force myself to focus on.

I gather my will, forming an imaginary barricade, a sanctuary from the horrors of reality.

In the background that seems so far away I can hear him humming as he prepares his

instruments. The clash and scrape of steel against steel, the careful sharpening of blades.

I watch as he caresses each piece, a prized possession. Occasionally he confronts me

with a favourite, displaying it, his fingers touching it like he once touched me. And he

describes in great detail, it's purpose, it's design. Revels in the tales of his previous

torture sessions, his eyes burn deep, his nose flares, his tongue licking his lips, as if he is

actually there.

Finally his steps echo around the room, and I can feel the slight breeze as he walks about

me. The steps suddenly stop, the silence deafening, and I recognize the beginning of the

end.

He brings with him a simple knife, a long fine blade. He lays it upon my skin, just

resting it, yet that is enough for it to break the skin, beads of blood forming along the

edges. He lightly draws it across; searing pain burns from the cut as it moves down over

my chest. The wound isn't deep but it is acutely painful, designed more for pain than

blood. His fingers come to rest over the cut, slowly pressing deeper, working their way

in, tearing apart the flesh, boring in with agonizing efficiency. The blood starts to flow,

between his fingers, over his palm, down his arm. He removes his fingers from the cut,

the pain temporarily gone for but a moment, until I can feel his fingers prying my lips

apart, forcing my mouth open, feeding me my own blood.

So I focus, draw from within, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing the pain in my

eyes -- hiding, surviving the best way I know how. He'll have no satisfaction from my

death, nor hear my pleading or screams. The beast wants this and more, and this is what

will be denied him.

I search back for that moment and there now before my eyes I see my lover standing

there that first time. I can feel it. That first spark of fire, a desire to consume and be

consumed, that tentative first kiss, our bodies awakening to each other's touch. Cool lips,

soft and yielding against warm ones. The sound of my heart pounding in my ears, my

lungs gasping for breath, his eyes filled with desire, his hands and mouth devouring me,

then finally being filled, taken as his own and capturing my heart.

Then reality returns, more searing pain. Another series of punches, this time over a well-

cut area, the wounds opening up further, the blood flowing more freely. He pulls down

on my now useless arms violating my body but not my soul.

The torture continues, for how long it is hard to tell. Time means nothing now--the loss

of blood is too great, pain all but a memory. My ability to maintain my guard wavers as

time goes on. A chill grows slowly, working its way out from my core, through my

bones. It is the cold approach of death.

And as I slip away from this place I remember, I look up and see him standing there, that

one moment I had lived a lifetime for – "I love you Wes."

With that comes that last whisper of life -- I look upon Angelus – "I love you, Angel…"