I Blame the Dutch (mpoetess) wrote,
I Blame the Dutch
mpoetess

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Snippity, written for zortified

Angel/Wes, light NC-17




"Don't."

One tiny word, with the barest of breath behind it, soft, no more than needed. But nothing about Angel was ever really tiny --except occasionally his brain -- and Wesley didn't move his hand from the bedpost. Don't weighted it there as if all hundred and eighty pounds of vampire were sitting on his hand.

And that thought sent the images slipping and sliding through Wesley's not so tiny brain, the one that pleased Angel so very much so long as Wesley remembered to shut it down when it started screaming that there was a vampire doing what to him, exactly, and really was this wise? It was being a good brain now now, it would seem, from the greedy, mocking cant of Angel's smile as he watched Wesley shudder.

White sharpness of don't in that smile, when he thought of smashing it silent with his own mouth. White don't smile flash-freezing his body to the bed, and the weight of don't pinning Wesley's hands to the headboard. Steel don't, unbreakable, unmovable, and cool as Angel's hands would be on his skin, if they weren't crossed in front of him. Not touching. Not moving. Angel and his tiny buggering hundred and eighty pound don't, standing there at the foot of the bed, doing nothing. Nothing, except grin like the bastard he was, while Wesley...

Lay bare before him, trussed tight to bedpost, to footpost, to mattress, by Super Heavy Duty, can't buy this in stores, call now and you'll receive a free set of Time-Life home gardening books with your order, versatile shapechanging don't. It's a rope, it's a weight, it's a pair of cuffs. It's a floor wax, chuckled some voice in Wesley's mind that wasn't muffled by the silk don't in his mouth. It's a dessert topping.

Don't (Don'tmovedon'tspeakdon'tstopplayingdon'tbeafraidexceptmaybealittle) in Angel's eyes kept Wesley's legs spread open, displayed before the vampire like some obscene buffet table, while those eyes did all the moving for both of them, flicking across Wesley's body. Sampling the goods for a moment, resting on a twitching thigh muscle, sliding along the length of a cock that ached for him so hard that Wesley wondered if he *could* come just from the heavy touch of dark-eyed don't, except... Except don't, so no, because it wasn't an option.

There really was only one option -- aside from the lie here and die of blue balls while Angel smirks at you like the fucking bastard that you both know he is option, which wasn't, because the status quo is not an option. There was this, which was terrible and wonderful and evil, but far worse than that, just plain bloody mean -- and there was the other option.

Where he let his eyelids fall, the tinest fraction of a fraction. So tiny that it was smaller than don't; it slipped out from underneath, because that one tiny word was so huge, it didn't even notice one flick of an eyelash. Even when it suddenly meant that Wesley was looking up at Angel through those lashes. Looking. That was all. Looking, because Angel couldn't, not without spoiling the game, say don't to that. Wesley Looked at him.

Five seconds later, there were wet lips around his cock. Strong hands grasping his thighs so hard the muscles burned. A low, angry growl, as Angel tried to pull away long enough to mutter "Bastard" and Wesley laughed. And told him, "Don't."

He didn't.
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