Disclaimers: If they were mine, I'd spend a lot of time staring.

Spoilers: Angel up through Reunion.

Summary: Gunn does some hauling.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Author's Note: After a day of porn and pop-up ad frustration,
Sheila gave me a way to vent.

Acknowledgments: To Sheila, of course, and to my Webrain. And.
well, everyone who has asked for Gunnfic. Now you have to
write *me* some. <g>

Feedback: Put yourself in my place. Wouldn't *you* want feedback?
thete1@earthlink.net.

*

mimesere: tell me a story?
Daddy793: They shouldn't be doing this.

No, strike that, *he* shouldn't be doing this, because, let's face it, if
Wesley's had an original thought since Angel dropped the bomb on all
of them he sure as fuck hasn't *shared* it.

No, it's been a hauling night. Haul him out of there, dead silent, and
Gunn had wished he could carve out Angel's eyes to stop that smirking,
alien stare. Haul him into the truck, wheel the bike up into the bed. Haul
him out of the truck once it had been parked safe for the night, and haul
his ass up the street to the Urban.

Kareem behind the bar tonight, Shanisha and Tanya working the room,
wearing their jeans, t-shirts, and attitudes. No one ever bothers the
two of them. Two of Gunn's own people, despite them each having at
least five years on him.

They'd looked Wesley up and down baldly, and gave him identical
Looks. Wesley should've been drawing himself up, flustered and
stammering out something to embarrass the both of them forever.
Instead, he was just standing.

Ruler straight and silent and not even close to actually *present*.

Pop his money into the machine and he's got a nice selection going.
Otis. The *Reverend* Al Green, if you can only dig it. DMX, just to
suit his mood. Wesley reacted to none of it, none of *anything*.

Not even when Big Carl had come in demanding money from one of the
regulars and Gunn had had to step up, if briefly. Wesley drank. Gunn
drank.

Kareem kicked them out sometime well past Late and Gunn did his best
to lead Wes home.

Kicked *himself* for not remembering to find out where the man lived,
but, who knows, maybe it would do Wesley good to wake up among
Gunn's people. Gunn's normal, never-give-up-and-go-crazy-for-a-vampire-
whore people who would appreciate them both, and rib them for being
 stupid in the first place, and it would be all right because it always is.

No matter what.

Gunn had been drunk. Gunn *is* drunk, because that all hadn't been too
long ago. It had in fact, been just before Wes gave up on the silence for
just long enough to giggle and yank them into this fully up-to-code dark,
dank alley.

Shadows to lurk in, fire escapes to leap down from, and Wesley.

Solemn and staring at Gunn from his half sprawl against the wall.
Laughing in that I'm-not-as-drunk-as-you-think way, and smiling
something beyond unreadable up at Gunn.

Ruining it with another giggle ending in one of those weirdly
high-pitched croons. Like an old woman. Like a drunken Englishman with
his hand firmly placed on Gunn's crotch.

Leaving Gunn to figure out how to react -- a thought process that
had somehow leaped clear of "you're way too drunk for this" to pinning
Wes to the wall and licking his neck.

Just. Licking.

Sweat, stubble, alcohol funk and Wes. Salty and shuddering beneath his
tongue, utterly loose within Gunn's grip. Loose everywhere save for
that knowing hand just... *working* him. No hesitation, no fumble, and
Gunn's hands have to prove their own worth.

Slide up under the shirt and press the shifting muscles of Wesley's
abdomen. Trace them fast and rough before sliding back out and
unbuttoning.

Spreading.

Listens to Wes breathe *and* watches it. Catches the glitter of his
eyes and wonders what Wesley's thinking about all this and can't
hold onto the questions for long. Not with the sparely muscled chest in
front of him, silky hair utterly unlike anyone he's touched in... years.
Well, nothing silky without the help of a relaxer. Which isn't a damn
thing like this.

Just wants to tug on those hairs, make the skin jump beneath.

Wesley's hard and smooth where the hair doesn't dust him. Wesley's
chest is in motion and Wesley's breath in his ear is in that sexily
unhealthy rhythm.

"How you doin', Wes?"

A groan, and a squeeze that makes Gunn give it *right* back.

"What do you want?"

"Well, I should think that would be rather obvious --"

Squeezes Wes' nipple and makes him cut himself off with a hiss, a
low chuckle.

"What do *you* want... Gunn?"

"I want to suck you, and then you, if the spirit moves you, may lower
yourself to do the same, your Lordship."

Another laugh. "That's 'Your Ladyship' if the money's right."

"Sick fuck."

"Always the quiet ones, isn't it?"

Leaning in, breathing Remy Martin flavored Wesley right up close. "I
don't want you quiet."

"Make me loud."

Has to kiss then, fuck the rules. Deep and fast, thorough. No time to
tease and no inclination, just wants Wesley breathless and hard enough
to hurt. Pinching, pulling on his nipples, too, grinding against that
ruthless hand and then back. Off.

Nothing, no contact. Watching Wes watching him, disheveled, fly
half-opened and straining.

"Suck me."

And Gunn gets down.

Push them down, peel them back, pull it *out*. Respectably-sized and
hard. Wet. Digging his thumbs into the shallow bowls of Wesley's hips
and pressing back. Tight little ass under his fingertips, maybe not so
tight where it counted.

Wesley pushing shamelessly into Gunn's mouth, but giving up nothing
but brief little chuffing noises until Gunn lets his teeth graze --

"*Fuck* --"

And again, and again, and takes him down deep just long enough for Wes
to start scrabbling for purchase on Gunn's head. Stubble rough but
sweat too lick and Wesley curses a streak when Gunn pulls off.

Gunn knows how to do this, and, perversely, wants Wesley to ask why.
Wants to tell him in exquisite and cruel detail. Lay it all out and suck
Wes off again, because this is... this is different but it's *always*
gonna be the same.

Sucking just on the head now, fist wrapped around the base of
Wesley's cock and squeezing rhythmically, nothing he's doing conducive
to thrust and he can feel the man get a little bigger. A little harder.
A little more acid with need and Gunn pulls off all the way.

One hand on Wesley's hip, the other on his cock, drawing fine lines of
pre-come all over his numb/buzzing lips that feel huge, damningly
ethnic. Something so wrong it's sexy and Wesley's down to:

"Oh God oh fuck ah ah *fuck*..."

Every breath is a moan, his own, too.

*Slut*

And he doesn't know who the voice is speaking to, and he doesn't care
either. If he can handle knees damp with... something, then he can handle.
This. Wes so desperate and *alive* in a way that makes Gunn want to
rewind. Step back to sometime when they were alone and do him. Settles
for finally taking Wes back, all the way down his throat, and swallowing
and swallowing and sucking, too, and looking up.

No blinking, not going to miss a minute of Wes trying to dig into the
wall with his clawless hands, arch and writhe with every flick of Gunn's
tongue. So fucking sexy.

Beautiful.

Wants to let Wes come all over his face, but remembers an unfortunate
incident involving his eye *far* too well. Settles for pulling back and
pumping when Wes starts with the juddering, breathless warnings and
dire threats of death by spunk, all in that proper British voice that's
gonna make Gunn choke from laughing so hard.

But not before he swallows everything he can and licks up the rest
and it's like clockwork. Gunn releases Wesley's hips and stands just
as Wesley crumples attractively to his knees and. Nuzzles him.

And aw, fuck, that's just. That should... Wesley down on his knees and
rubbing up on him like some... some fucked-up *cat*, cheek pressed right
up to Gunn's jeans and pressing and rubbing and Wesley turning to kiss
and mouth and suck through the jeans. Eyes closed and wild, features
chafed what might have been red in the streetlight, and Gunn doesn't
have a wall to lean against and air isn't cutting it.

Hurts to push Wesley off but he's gotta get his pants out of the
*way* and Wesley's down there on his knees, swaying and grinning.
Watching Gunn's hands fumble and almost leering.

"Does this mean I can call you Charles?"

"You planning on arresting me?"

"Will you resist?"

"Oh, fuck, Wes, you are gonna *hate* yourself in the morning and I'm
gonna laugh my ass off. Just so you know."

"Even if I make you come?"

Dick out in the air at *last* and it's the same all-good feeling to get
his hand around it. Holding on and offering it at the same time. "You
were gonna do that anyway, remember?"

"How silly of me to forget..."

And Wes leaning in is one of those timeless moments he'll remember
*after* he gets to fuck that mouth. Wide, surprisingly generous,
wrapped around him so tight and wet and *sweet*. Right now, right here,
he doesn't give a flying fuck about how drunk they both are and how
much they're both faking. Wesley looks *good* sucking cock.

Damned good. Something worth seeing at least once in any given
lifetime and he's babbling. Silent, but babbling just the same and
biting his lip and trying not to fuck Wesley's face too hard and
*needing* to let loose and *do* it. Hunched over and holding on to
shoulders skated thin with muscle and Wesley's got a hold to his balls
and Wesley, right this moment, has  achieved something like godhood.

A false idol to lay himself on the altar for, because it just seems like
his life needs a little blasphemy, or possible a lot more Wes-fucking
and that hand is moving back and Gunn spreads and ah *shit* right there
and in. Dry and rough and raw and *good* and Gunn's orgasm nearly
knocks him -- and Wesley by physical association -- to the ground.

It doesn't.

They breathe.

Wesley releases him with a slick-pop and Gunn shudders. Crouches,
then rises. Tucks himself away. Wesley is actually trying to do
something about the stains on his pants with a handkerchief. Hope
springs eternal, maybe. He's balanced on one leg, other braced against
the wall, half-bent. Gunn wants to goose him, and does.

Catches Wes back against him and fondles slowly, without much purpose.
No matter who's faking what and how much, that was a *lot* of booze.
He wants to ask anyway, but doesn't know if knowing will help much. No
one has to say they'll still be working together, one way or another.
Cordy will undoubtedly have a vision, and there's no big, bad, pussy-ass
vampire to step in.

They're gonna have to do the morning-after thing, and do it right. Or
maybe not do it all. Wesley likes having his neck licked. Gunn wants to
get fucked. Approximately four hours from now.

"Come on, I'll get you a place to sleep."

"Not your bed? I'm terribly insulted."

"Anywhere you want 'cept the womens' place. Unless you don't *like*
your balls."

"I wasn't --"

"I was."

Speculative look, dark with exhaustion. "Really..."

"Really."

Wesley nods once in that completely fake "all is as it should be" way
that makes Gunn want to hit people and then they're off.

Fuck Angel.

End.