Title: Where Angels Fear To Tread

Author: little Alex

Date: April 20, 2000

Fandom: Angel the Series

Disclaimer: The boys aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon, David Greenwelt, Mutant Company, WB, Fox, and various other people and companies that I can't think of at this moment. Lucky bastards.

Spoiler: "Eternity," AtS season one

Ratings/Warning: NC-17, for sex, nudity, and m/m sex; Wesley angst

Pairing: Angel/Wesley Wyndham-Pryce

Summary/Notes: What does Wesley want? Third in my Angel/Wesley series.

Feedback/E-mail: Of course yes. On list or private at

litalex@yahoo.com

Archive: Yes, wherever you want.

Personal Notes: A thousand thanks to Charles and Criss.

I am a fool, an absolute fool, a complete idiot, a total moron.

By all means, I should not still be in love with him. Has he not so recently demonstrated how little he cared for me? Fawning over Ms. Lowell was one thing. He never did pretend that he loves me. I am nothing but a. to use the American vernacular, a 'fuck buddy,' perhaps not even that. I do not have the right to grudge him his dalliances with anyone else. Of course, I can only hope that he has not noticed my tone of voice when I told Cordelia that he liked Ms. Lowell. My *love* likes someone else and the only thing I can do is whimper like the proverbial kicked puppy. Not that it would win him back. I know that if nothing else.

Angelus' words, however, did shock me. I thought that his bedding me means that he has at least some shred of respect for me. Obviously, I am wrong. "Suddenly grow a pair?" he has asked. No, not so suddenly, Angel. If he has paid closer attention, he would even know the exact time. Physical courage seems so much easier now that I have to gather up enough emotional courage to face myself. The moment that I admitted my love for him is the moment that I stopped fearing death. Death is a mercy, a salvation compared to this existence he has damned me into.

So why am I climbing down the stairs to free him? Should he not suffer for what he has done to me, to Cordelia, and even to Ms. Lowell? Why do I forgive him so easily? I sigh. Do I truly have to ask? I am such a weakling. I cannot stand the sight of him in the slightest pain or unhappiness. Every time he turns his soulful brown eyes on me, I keel over like some rowboat in a stormy sea. Pathetic, indeed, that my purpose of life has become making him happy. The trouble with my lifelong goal, of course, is that he will never be happy with me. And since I will not be giving him 'happy pills,' as Ms. Lowell has done, he has absolutely no need to fear the curse when with me.

Nonetheless, despite my earlier words, I still have not completely forgiven Angelus', and thusly Angel's, contempt of me. A plan forming in my mind, I finally arrive at his bedroom walkway and he smiles at me. "Wes," he begins, then stops when I stay at the threshold of the room, leaning against the wall. The smile on his lips drops and his expression turns as somber as mine. "What's wrong?" He shifts minutely on the bed. "Come on, unbind the chains." I only stare at him, raking my gaze over his infinitely desirable body, longing to follow my gaze with my hands and then tongue.

It strikes me quickly enough that I can very well fulfill that particular wish if none other. I flash my sweetest smile and stride toward the bed. He breathes a sigh of presumable relief. Ahh, but poor Angel will not know what hit him until far, far too late. I touch my hand to his ankle and trace a slow path up, squeezing here and there. He becomes wary again, even turning his head away from my touch when I cup his left cheek. Mentally shrugging, I stroke my hand down his body and rest it on the front of his trousers.

The flesh within hardens against my palm and I snort. Our incessant forays in the bedroom have trained his body well, it seems. The object of my affections, however, does not look amused, which I can hardly blame him. I pull out the keys to one of the many loops of metal links from my trousers pocket and unlock the respective chains. He rolls his eyes, probably berating me silently for the delay. Quickly I throw the chains off him until only the one binding his hands is left. Sitting down onto the bed, I lick my lips as he glares at me, obviously exerting a high amount of effort to keep from struggling.

Then I unzip his pants and he relaxes all at once. I shake my head slightly, amused by the stereotypical male response to the lightest promise of sexual satisfaction. He closes his eyes and rubs his half-hard organ, still inside the confines of cotton, against my hand like a large cat. Will you purr, my dear Angel, if I stroke your hair? Hmm, probably not, seeing how much devotion he gives his hair, which, to me, *is* a bit - how has Spike said it? - 'nancy.' I snort at myself. Given my own proclivities, I hardly have the right to call anyone that.

Both my hands on him now, I pull off his shoes and then socks. Clearly enthusiastic in helping me, he raises his appropriate body parts readily when I move onto his trousers and underpants. I climb half on top of him and bend my head, all prepared to take his erection into my mouth, when a much better idea enters my brain. I slide off the bed, eliciting a groan of apparent frustration, and open one of the drawers of his nightstand. After a minute of rummaging around, I finally find the objects I need. I throw the piece of cloth, the metal shackles, and the lubricant onto the bed and close the drawer.

Glancing into his face, I cannot help but chuckle. His expression is quite priceless: the single most predatory grin I have ever seen in my experiences, which are *plenty*, thank you very much. I wrap the black blindfold around his eyes, adjusting it until I am sure that he cannot see through the fabric. Then I unlock the chain binding his hands together, turning briefly over the option of disposing his shirt first, and push his arms over his head. He remains still and pliant as I lock his wrists into the shackles, the shackles to the chains, and then the chains onto the bedposts.

I take a step back, studying my handiwork, who is shifting uncomfortably around. Considering what he has done to me earlier tonight, I truly should just leave him right here, right now, and let Ms. Chase discover him in this exact state tomorrow morning. A wry smile rises onto my lips. Perhaps not; she will enjoy the delicious sight far too much. Ah, well. I climb back onto the bed and then on top of him, my body on all fours. Our bodies in the 'sixty-nine' position, I promptly take into my mouth his organ, my elbows right next to his waist. He moans loudly and I can, from the corner of my eye, see him throw his head back.

Bobbing my head up and down his erection, I give him all the skills and attention I possess. His lips touch my own cock through the fabric of my trousers and I immediately pull my head away from his organ. He sighs loudly but settles back down onto the bed. I resume my task, sucking the large erection back down my throat. It is quite impressive, his organ, I mean. Thicker but no longer than my own, his uncircumcised shaft fits quite nicely in my mouth. I scrape my teeth on it ever so lightly and he bucks, shoving the column of flesh further down my throat. It almost chokes me, but I recover quickly enough to take it in completely.

I drag my lips up along his erection until they rest on its tip. Delving my tongue under the bit of soft skin, I twirl my tongue around the almost purple head and lick away the droplets of pre-ejaculate. He does not taste much like anything, which in itself is shockingly new. No, sleeping with him, full stop, is in itself jarring. Anything from his body temperature to his lack of bodily emissions gives me pangs of occupational guilt in the contemplative silences afterwards, where he usually sleeps like, appropriately, the dead. Damn the Council for forcing guilt on me when there should be none. Damn me for succumbing to their conditioning.

Then again, I will probably train myself out of it swiftly enough, exactly the way I have trained myself out of showing true emotions when in bed. One disastrous incident when I was twenty is more than enough to teach me the error of actually caring about my bedmates, excluding, of course, the vampire whose cock I am sucking now. Amazing, isn't it, that my mind can wander off in a million directions and my body will continue its mission in pleasing my sex partners as attentively as before.

My current sex partner, who is now almost carelessly driving his erection in and out of my mouth, certainly seems pleased. My left hand cups the heavy sac of his testes and I suck his entire length back into my mouth and then down my throat. My tongue massaging his shaft, I swallow a few times, squeezing the sensitive head with my esophagus. His scrotum draws tight within my palm and semen shoots in cool spurts down my throat. I easily gulp down the liquid until he collapses back onto the bed, apparently quite exhausted.

Rolling off him and onto the bed, I glance at his face and allow a smile to touch my lips. Another example of a job well done, I think I can safely say, if the satiated grin on his mouth is any evidence. We stay in the exact same position for minutes and he murmurs my name. I roll on top of him and kiss him luxuriously. He opens his mouth and our tongues duel for dominance. The chains rattle and I break the kiss. His arms straining against the metal restraints, he requests his release again, "Wes, come on."

Laughing softly, I straddle his hips and rub my gluteal muscles against his semi-hard shaft. I slowly move down along his body until I kneel between his legs. Stroking a finger from his groin to his right knee, I sigh at the feel of firm muscles under the pale, silky skin. After removing all my clothes, I put my arms under his thighs and, with his total acquiescence, place his legs over my shoulders. I pick up the bottle of the lubricant and squeeze an adequate amount into my hand. It warms in my palm and I coat my own erection with the gel.

After squeezing another dose of the grease onto my fingers, I push them inside him, stretching his taut passage. I rotate my hand, my fingers searching for that particular spot, and know that I have succeeded when he chokes out a moan. Slowly, I plunge my own organ into his cool tightness in one long stroke. Oh, Lord God, will I ever get used to this marvelous sensation? His channel has enveloped my flesh in a relentless grip of pressure and I feel as if I never want to leave. This, no, *he*, who is moaning my name repeatedly as of this particular instant, is utterly and thoroughly overwhelming.

My eyes close on their own accord and I lean on him, into him. He squirms slightly, grinding his hips against my own. I pull almost completely out and sink inside his yielding flesh again. In these precise minutes contains *my* 'perfect moments of happiness.' Here I can temporarily erase from my mind the many reasons that contribute to the impossibility of our 'relationship' ever succeeding. My jabs steadying into a slow rhythm, I allow my mind to blank.

Minutes or hours pass as we continue and then he encircles my waist with his long, muscular legs, meeting my strokes with increasing force. Reluctant to end our joining of flesh, I try to hold my body still, but it betrays me and falls into pace with his thrusts. My gaze touches his face and I am almost to the point of tears. If I have seen a more beautiful sight in my life, I do not remember it. His face is minimally contorted by his concentration in this act of passion, the long piece of cloth around his eyes, his jaws clenched tightly together. Not flawless, no, but each individual flaw contrives together into a perfection bearing the name of Angel.

Our pace quickens and, moments later, I climax into his body. After riding out the last few thrusts, I slip out of him as his legs fall back to the bed again. My spent body collapses onto his and I rest my head on his chest, my right ear pressing against where his heartbeat should be. Instead, I can hear only my heartbeats and my breaths, which are slowing back to their normal rates. I allow myself another second of bliss and then pick up the key from the nightstand. Quickly, I unlock his wrists, which are chafed and bleeding lightly, and remove his blindfold.

His arms immediately wrap around me and I flinch, forcing myself not to struggle. How can he not grasp that I do not want his pity? One of his arms winds tighter around my waist and he tips my chin so that our eyes meet. The hand moves up, stroking into my hair, and drags my head up for a kiss. Our mouths still joined, he rolls me under him and, after a minute or two, I break away from the kiss, in need of air. He cups my cheek, aligning our lines of sight again, and his eyes are liquid emotion. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing." My answer is, of course, a lie. I have told myself to expect nothing, for only then will I never be disappointed. My own heart, however, has betrayed me by harboring the silly dream that Angel may one day return my love. I did not even know this betrayal until seconds before, where my heart leapt at the expression in his eyes. Lord God, my earlier self-assessment is right; I am truly pathetic.

He frowns and simply looks at me for a few moments, obviously weighing some decision. "Wes, please don't lie to me."

"Why would I lie to you?" I force a smile onto my mouth. "I only lie to people I care about," I say in the gentlest of tones, as if I am a doctor breaking the unfortunate news to a terminally ill patient.

His face hardening, he shoves me away from him, his trembling hands gripping my arms painfully. "I'm sorry that I kissed you that night. Whatever your reasons for sleeping with me, you don't have to anymore." He swiftly gets off the bed, strides into the bathroom, and slams the door. Sounds of running water soon fill the room.

Oh, dear Lord in Heaven, what have I done? 'Revenged the words that Angelus gifted you,' my mind whispers. Yes, but is it worth the price of his pain? If revenge is as sweet as they say, then why can I only feel the emptiness of my soul? No, I should go into that little room right now and beg his forgiveness, now that I can be certain of his granting it. Facing the closed door, I sit up and slip off the bed. I walk the short distance to the door and place my hand on the doorknob. Fully intending to go in and apologize, I stand there motionless for minutes before realizing that I will never do so.

Cursing silently at myself, I walk back to the other side of the bed and bend down to pick up my clothes. Garments in hand, I quickly dress myself. When I am fully clothed again, I walk into the elevator and it carries me up to his office. It is only six o'clock and Cordelia will not be here until nine. My back against the metal bars, I slide down until I sit on the floor, my knees bent and my arms around them. I rest my forehead on my knees and allow the sobs to come.

Why did my heart lie to me so completely? I truly thought that I expected nothing and, just a few hours ago, I had nothing. But now that I have all I can hope for from him - friendship, companionship, intimacy, and even a place in his heart - I want *everything*. When the bloody hell has friendship become not enough? He can never love anyone else the way he loved Buffy. So why do I want that and nothing less?

I am such a fool.

~~finis~~