Fandom: Angel

Not really. Nothing special is still true, but still more than just two guys and a bed. A little more than just extra energy, and Wesley just looks more and more puzzled every time.

So dig it. The second time was a little longer, a little sweatier, but still...just sex. Two guys and a bed and surprisingly, Wesley isn't much of a talker when he's bare-ass naked.

Third time's supposed to be a charm, right?

Not. Really just...not.

Demons dead, Angel practically running back to the hotel, and Gunn is just itching for it. It. Death or sex, sex and death, and he's got Wesley on the bed, spread out and God, the man is just begging for it. Different it.

Gunn's not so sure he can provide whatever it is that Wesley wants. Needs. Begs for.

He's not so sure he wants to try.

Round two: a hush falls on the crowd. Captive audience of one while Wesley is completely focused on what he's doing, and he's doing just fucking fine. Gunn lies back, being done, which is a nice change from the doing, and hey, score one for queer old England.

Still nothing.

Maybe.

And it occurs to Gunn that maybe, just maybe, this is not the most normal of...things.

Yeah, things. Shit.

Nothing's changed, really. Not at the hotel, not around Cordelia, not anywhere. They still fight, and fight other things, and fight with each other. Wesley still gets more excited over books than anything, and Gunn still. With Cordelia.

Not that.

Just...well. It's Cordelia and he owes her.

Okay, so she's Barbie-like and extremely white. Still a good looking woman and Jesus God, but he feels guilty thinking that. Why? 'Cause he's got an even whiter man and wouldn't the folks back home just shake their heads and wonder whatever happened to that "nice Gunn boy"?

Fell in with some crazy ass white people, is what.

Fucking haunted hotel. Fucking vampires. Fucking Wesley.

Wesley's "flat" with clean white sheets and there is no excuse. No vampires to stake, no demons to kill, no waifs to save. Just.

Two guys. A bed.

And Jesus, Wesley just takes it. No questions asked after "Is there something wrong?" and then all he says is...nothing. Not a single damned thing and shit, this has got to be the only place where he shuts up.

Which isn't so great.

What the fuck is going on when Gunn misses the sound of Wesley being pissed and precise and so...fuck.

And this...this whatever has to stop, 'cause it's nine hundred different kinds of screwed up and because. Something.

And yet, here's Gunn at Wesley's door. And here's Wesley, occult casual in black jeans and a sweater. Look, there's a bed right through that doorway.

So.

Wesley just looks at him and Gunn realizes that he never. invites. anyone. in. Not ever.

So.

Two guys. Check. A bed. Check.

Inside the door now and Wesley hangs the crucifix back on the wall like it's no big thing. Standard fare for opening a door, like shouting out that he's got heavy weaponry and he knows how to use it.

Yeah. Gunn pushes Wesley up against the couch and this cannot be the first time he's laid lips on the man. 'Cause, shit, that would be...wrong.

Some surprise on Wesley's side, tense, yeah, tense, and then he gives in. Opens his mouth and oh. That's a new taste. Wesley's been hitting his tea again, pouring enough sugar in to make a fucking paste and his mouth is just too damn sweet.

Shit.

Oh shit.

Gunn's jacket hits the floor with a thud. A clank, too, but hey, a guy can never be too careful. Wesley's hip knocks a book to the floor and that breaks them apart. God fucking forbid that one of Wesley's books gets hurt.

Wesley just looks at him, a little confused, a little, a lot rumpled and he looks like he's hungry. Or angry.

He opens his mouth and Gunn's on him again, shoving the sweater out of the way, and Wesley is just there. So there. Quiet and smooth and got more working brain cells than Gunn does, 'cause he steers them into the bedroom and onto the bed and Gunn pulls away long enough to yank the sweater over Wesley's head.

The sweater steals the glasses and the jeans are surprisingly loose. Tug and hey! off they go.

Wesley's not saying anything. Never does, but Gunn's aiming for a few words now. Or maybe just sounds. Something to prove that Wesley's all there, not off fucking Angel or being fucked by the same and Gunn can't remember how it felt the first time. It feels important somehow, now, and he can't remember why or how or anything but the feel of Wesley's hands and mouth and damn.

He fumbles in the drawer by the bed, pulls out the party favors and he's ready to go.

Gunn's hand is surprisingly dark against Wesley's skin, and even Super Dead Guy has more color to his skin than this.

Span the length of Wesley's ribcage and the boy needs to eat something filling. Put some muscle on.

Gunn ducks his head and yeah, that's a new taste too and hot fucking damn but Wesley can move and Gunn promises that he's never going to call him on a lack of rhythm again.

And shit, maybe this is what Wesley's been asking for the whole time. Getting done, full body, just touched maybe. Stroke down his side and Wesley's ticklish and his mouth opens, eyes wide, and this is not so bad.

Getting done. Doing. Gunn is...doing.

Wesley is getting done. Not just fucked. Not just spread out across the bed and he moved then, but not like this. Gunn thinks that maybe he's never seen anyone move like this.

Harsh voice, greedy body, and he's talking. Wanting and needing and oh God yeah. Asking Gunn for more, just more, and Gunn can give it to him. Can give anything because this is a thing of beauty, Wesley is, spare and clean and functional.

Flexible. Well, shit, who knew?

Demanding and pleading and whatever Wesley had wanted before, he has something now. He's got Gunn wrapped around him and inside him and this is something special.

Definitely something.