ficlet repost: "Fear Not Guilt" Angel/Wesley
Last one! Eight in all. Yay!
Title: "Fear Not Guilt"
Fandom: Angel
Pairing: Angel/Wesley
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: High-heeled shoes.
Disclaimer: Joss's
Spoilers: No.
Notes: For the fifth porn battle. Originally posted here.
Summary: Shoes (yet start at shame).
Wordcount: 684
Fear Not Guilt
Wearing the shoes, a deeper shame than Wesley can endure grips his heart, deadens arousal with Father's voice and the cool laughter of a man with Angel's face but Angelus's eyes. So he holds them, or one, the spike nestled neatly in his left palm while his right hand grips his dick, eyes closed so he can't see, only feel the curve of vinyl as he awkwardly caresses a shoe designed to bend a woman's foot into impossible contortions, a shoe so tall and shameless even Cordelia would not wear it. He shudders at his own touch, his joints tighten, he rubs the shoe with jerky, unintended movements and its heel may scar his hand.
Masturbation is automatic, unfocused; his mind can attend only to the black vinyl and his fingers skidding over it, the build-up, tension, explosion, pungent release followed by keening hollowness all live in an unexplored place, dark and timeless, where he never thinks.
The shoe's against his dick, just resting, and he's struggling to exchange the humiliation of being at the mercy of an object for the purity of twisting desire, when Angel finds him.
Angel, generously, is embarrassed, looking everywhere but at Wesley, helpless and naked and cowering more than is reasonable even given his position, fumbling for blankets that seem to tangle into uselessness as he touches them. The shoe, tossed away because the shame of holding it is deeper than the naked shame it hides, has reached a position of prominence regardless, halfway between them, glinting with malice. Angel whistles, off-key, and waits till Wesley is covered (though still indecent) to say, "Next time I'll knock."
"Please."
"Do you ever wear them?" Angel asks, as if Wesley's fetishes rather than some demonic menace is his interest here. "Or is it just for --"
"There's another in the closet," Wesley admits, compelled by still twinging (actually tightening, at Angel's too-casual questioning) desire. "But no, I don't wear them."
"You should. You'd look -- good."
The voices that handcuff him to can't and shame are stilled by the softness in Angel's, the hint of -- teasing? Not lust, surely, though (he chances a glance upwards) his eyes are darker than wonted -- but something nearer it than Wesley would have expected.
"Let me find the mate for you." And Angel does -- he's invited not only into Wesley's flat but into his life, his closet and his secrets and the unvisited place in his brain that wants to be pinned to the floor by Angel's body. He holds the shoe casually but kneels like Prince Charming, sliding it neatly onto Wesley's foot, which it embraces too easily, jerking his dick upwards. Angel snatches the other shoe and fits that one with less care, more haste. Surely he's not --
"Do I meet your expectations?"
"Wesley, I shouldn't --" His gut twists with the half-rejection and his body jerks without volition nearer to Angel, still kneeling, mouth open, eyes sideways, avoiding his. "But I don't think I can stop myself."
Angel has his mouth around Wesley's dick before Wesley has time to be afraid, and before his brain can notice that he's dressed in woman's shoes, Angel's pulled him to standing. He's unbalanced on the heels and Angel's sucking throws his coordination further into disarray; his hands find purchase in Angel's hair and without meaning to he's pushing Angel deeper, bringing himself nearer to orgasm against Angel's broad tongue, gasping with pain sharper than delight at the gentlest hint of Angel's unfanged teeth. He dares, for the first time, to open his eyes, and the reflected image jerks him deeper into Angel's mouth; Angel's invisible in the glass but Wesley can see his own legs descending into tight and shiny shoes that accent the curve of his calf all the way to his thighs and the dick that's lofted between his legs, bucking against air that Wesley knows is Angel's mouth, scrambling for a deeper angle. Wesley's shaky with desire but he doesn't trip; he's tall and erect in the shoes he loathes loving.
Title: "Fear Not Guilt"
Fandom: Angel
Pairing: Angel/Wesley
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: High-heeled shoes.
Disclaimer: Joss's
Spoilers: No.
Notes: For the fifth porn battle. Originally posted here.
Summary: Shoes (yet start at shame).
Wordcount: 684
Fear Not Guilt
Wearing the shoes, a deeper shame than Wesley can endure grips his heart, deadens arousal with Father's voice and the cool laughter of a man with Angel's face but Angelus's eyes. So he holds them, or one, the spike nestled neatly in his left palm while his right hand grips his dick, eyes closed so he can't see, only feel the curve of vinyl as he awkwardly caresses a shoe designed to bend a woman's foot into impossible contortions, a shoe so tall and shameless even Cordelia would not wear it. He shudders at his own touch, his joints tighten, he rubs the shoe with jerky, unintended movements and its heel may scar his hand.
Masturbation is automatic, unfocused; his mind can attend only to the black vinyl and his fingers skidding over it, the build-up, tension, explosion, pungent release followed by keening hollowness all live in an unexplored place, dark and timeless, where he never thinks.
The shoe's against his dick, just resting, and he's struggling to exchange the humiliation of being at the mercy of an object for the purity of twisting desire, when Angel finds him.
Angel, generously, is embarrassed, looking everywhere but at Wesley, helpless and naked and cowering more than is reasonable even given his position, fumbling for blankets that seem to tangle into uselessness as he touches them. The shoe, tossed away because the shame of holding it is deeper than the naked shame it hides, has reached a position of prominence regardless, halfway between them, glinting with malice. Angel whistles, off-key, and waits till Wesley is covered (though still indecent) to say, "Next time I'll knock."
"Please."
"Do you ever wear them?" Angel asks, as if Wesley's fetishes rather than some demonic menace is his interest here. "Or is it just for --"
"There's another in the closet," Wesley admits, compelled by still twinging (actually tightening, at Angel's too-casual questioning) desire. "But no, I don't wear them."
"You should. You'd look -- good."
The voices that handcuff him to can't and shame are stilled by the softness in Angel's, the hint of -- teasing? Not lust, surely, though (he chances a glance upwards) his eyes are darker than wonted -- but something nearer it than Wesley would have expected.
"Let me find the mate for you." And Angel does -- he's invited not only into Wesley's flat but into his life, his closet and his secrets and the unvisited place in his brain that wants to be pinned to the floor by Angel's body. He holds the shoe casually but kneels like Prince Charming, sliding it neatly onto Wesley's foot, which it embraces too easily, jerking his dick upwards. Angel snatches the other shoe and fits that one with less care, more haste. Surely he's not --
"Do I meet your expectations?"
"Wesley, I shouldn't --" His gut twists with the half-rejection and his body jerks without volition nearer to Angel, still kneeling, mouth open, eyes sideways, avoiding his. "But I don't think I can stop myself."
Angel has his mouth around Wesley's dick before Wesley has time to be afraid, and before his brain can notice that he's dressed in woman's shoes, Angel's pulled him to standing. He's unbalanced on the heels and Angel's sucking throws his coordination further into disarray; his hands find purchase in Angel's hair and without meaning to he's pushing Angel deeper, bringing himself nearer to orgasm against Angel's broad tongue, gasping with pain sharper than delight at the gentlest hint of Angel's unfanged teeth. He dares, for the first time, to open his eyes, and the reflected image jerks him deeper into Angel's mouth; Angel's invisible in the glass but Wesley can see his own legs descending into tight and shiny shoes that accent the curve of his calf all the way to his thighs and the dick that's lofted between his legs, bucking against air that Wesley knows is Angel's mouth, scrambling for a deeper angle. Wesley's shaky with desire but he doesn't trip; he's tall and erect in the shoes he loathes loving.