Addiction In The Ninth
by Princess Twilite

"Human life begins on the other side of despair." - Jean-Paul Sartre

Oh, but it's familiar. That sweet agony is only a kiss away, if you were to go to him and stop sulking in your room like a punished little boy. You feel breathless anticipation, with a rush of raw and absolute passion for the solid taste of hot, human blood. Wesley's right to be secretly afraid of you now. He used to be obvious about it, but now it's something that worms beneath his eyes, shaded by those extra thick lashes. Not smart of him to be so damned defiant, because that only makes you angry. Hungry. God, you have been hungry for so long.

You want it more now. Wish you'd taken him up on that unspoken offer he pushed on you for nearly two years. Take it, he said, take me. Be my hero.

You were fucked from the start and knew it. And now it's TOO. DAMNED. LATE. You're not his beacon in the darkness; you're not even his shiny spoon. All you are is baggage and he's figured it out. Yeah, you sure as hell should've had him when you had the chance.

Now the desire is a self-imposed exile, and it's more dangerous than you want anyone, including yourself, to know.

Wesley's something of a wayward child, fighting the ties that had once bound him close to you. It angers you, makes your heart flush in an almost-rhythm that screams of regret. It would have been so easy back then to lift him from his chair and push him against the wall until you could get two fingers around his zipper and tug it down. He looked up to you. He would have done anything to make you love him, guide him, be THERE for him.

You knew about his screwed up childhood and can only wish you'd been enough of a bastard then to use it in your favor. You should have nurtured that dependency, and now you can only watch as he grows up and gets his hair cut.

Now he's making you pay. Wesley was the one to do something wrong, not you! So now, when you're willing to welcome him back, he spurns you? What right does he have to hand out rejections?

You pretend not to dwell on it. But it only takes the scent of him to have the fine hairs on the back of your neck rising to absolute attention. Just like certain other parts of you that you can't seem to keep control of these days. Down, down, but it will never listen.

It's his damn blood. You can now recognize in his eyes that same intention, the way they had glinted down at you as his very essence filled your mouth. Bitter victory always shines through. Every time you see him, you picture him rolling up his sleeve, slender fingers unbuttoning his cuff to do so. Strong forearms clenching as he offers you everything in him, but really nothing at all, except for this terrible addiction.

Good one, Wes, you think. So fucking ironic.

Wesley has become adept at seeking his revenge. You imagine it tastes nearly as sweet at HE does. The liquid copper, and the burn of his taste flowing into your body and making you hot. You remember all of these things; sensations that should be vague and fleeting, but aren't.

You can't get over it. And you're sick of trying, of turning around and having one more person vanish like so many flakes of ash in your hand. Cordelia was quick to leave, wasn't she? She probably got a whiff of the heat in you and thought: No. Fucking. Way.

She probably figured out what you can only guess at: You like it hard and you like it dark. You LIKE it when things get a little broken. And with Wesley, oh god, with Wesley they're like a constant flow of tension, pulling at the flesh of your belly until you want to climb inside him and make sure he knows you're never leaving. He shouldn't have let you taste him. It's his fault.

Between night and morning, you allow yourself to lie in bed and jerk your cock with a firm, ungentle fist. Fantasies are catalogued by the thousands in your mind, from years and years of filing them away. There are a hundred years worth of them, when you didn't touch anyone for the simple fact that you felt dirty and didn't want to soil anyone else with your hands.

The fantasies about Wesley are not old enough that they're cracking around the edges like a fading black and white film, but they're not so new that you can claim surprise. You can fake yourself into denial, if you have to. But that's getting harder to do.

Are you impervious to the temperature changes? Mostly. But you feel so hot sometimes that you have to shuck off all your clothes and sit naked before the window, praying for the soft caress of the wind to make all the pain go away. And yet you fear that instant when the relief of a breeze does touch you, because what if? Angelus is your horrid nightmare and not so distant from where you lie now.

In your body, he is you. You are him. The two aren't neatly separated as you would have everyone believe. You both like the sweet angst of drama.

Wesley knows. You ignore the memory knocking on the door of your brain, of a pillow swallowing his pale, defeated face.

The moon flirts with the ceiling, and tonight you watch with your arms tucked beneath your head, your stomach straining with unsettled arousal. Self-gratification seems too little, too late, and has become so mundane that it brings more pain than pleasure.

Sometimes you dream, sometimes you don't, but on nights like these, it's hard to think of anything but your lips on his skin and the way they linger. The way you could have sucked him dry, and now want him in a way you haven't wanted anyone since Spike.

Deep. In the blood.


Startled by the feeling of falling, I nearly dropped to the ground. Only caught myself at the last moment, regaining my balance and opening my eyes.

"What are we doing here?" I asked Wesley, who was standing to my left, tossing a baseball around and catching it in his ungloved hands. Wesley glanced at me from the corner of his eye, shrugging carelessly. I listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, stunned to be standing beside him with such ease.

Like before, when things were better. Easier to deal with.

"I wouldn't know," Wesley responded dryly, lips curling up at the irony. The ball went up. Down. Wesley's fingers clenched tightly around it. "This is your dream, after all. A STRANGE dream at that. You're very odd, aren't you?"

I narrowed my eyes, peering at Wesley's face. It was familiar, easy to look. Easy to be fooled by. It seemed softer somehow, less weighted by what had hung between us these past months. The lines that had been working their way around Wesley's eyes seemed less prominent. And he was nearly smiling, just a quirk of his mouth up at the edge. Flirting at a grin.

I could remember his grin. And because of that, the stark absence of it had stung far too well.

Confused, I surveyed our surroundings. We were standing on a small baseball field, at the pitcher's mound, surrounded by metal bleachers and the scent of fresh cut grass. The stars were drowned out by the fluorescent glare of long-legged lights, leaving only a black sky and the glaze of stringy clouds.

A dream? I didn't feel like I was asleep. I felt all too awake; my head steaming with wants and desires that would never be satisfied. Even my nostrils were burning, because Wesley was two fucking inches away and it was too close but not close enough. And he didn't even have the kindness to be just as flustered; only stared back at me coolly, like this was an everyday occurrence.

Damn you, Wes.

"It looks like we're at a high school," I commented, shoving my hands down into the deep pockets of my leather duster. Tried to be as cool as him. Where had my control gone? The brief image of Wesley's manipulative eyes as he gave me his blood leered at me, and I was forced to shake it off. "I've never been here. We should leave."

"No, we shouldn't." Wesley stated firmly, staring down at the baseball when he caught it again. He held himself oddly still for a moment, considering something while I blinked at him in uncertainty. Not sure I wanted to know what was going on inside of that mind of his, no matter how awful these past weeks of tasting him in the back of my throat had been. "We should play. Because for some reason you think I know baseball."

He should, I thought. I remembered sitting in the shadows and watching my first game. It was a difficult time, knowing all the things I'd done wrong, and feeling like I should die fully. I'd known that would make things too easy for me, that I had to suffer for what I'd done. But when I'd sat there and heard the first crack of the wooden bat against a baseball, and the crowed rearing up in a thunderous applause, threaded with hoots of victory --- everything had almost been okay for a second.

Not perfect, but okay just the same.

"Don't you?" I frowned as I asked, reaching out and grabbing the ball from Wesley's hand before he could stop me. Just because I could, and I knew it would piss him off. Our fingers brushed and my gut tightened in reaction, giving one hard throb before settling into a low hum of arousal. I could SMELL him. Trying to focus on something else, I rolled the ball in my palm, twisting my fingers around it. The ball was grainy and well worn by hands before my own. Like butter. "You seem to know everything."

"Angel," Wes sighed, shaking his head at me like I was a schoolboy that needed to be taught. "Where I'm from, we play REAL sports. Not silly games."

I bristled, pulling back from him and dragging my gaze to the other bases. Looking anywhere but at Wesley's face. This was my dream, right? This Wesley should get as much a kick out of baseball as I did.

"I like baseball," I found myself whispering, eyes closing and remembering the first time I'd smelled the musk of the ball, wrapped my fingers around the bat after all the players had gone home and I could break into the stadium. My fingers grew loose. I wanted to let the ball go, just to show Wesley that I could. It had no hold over me. Nothing should mean quite as much to me these days.

Wake up, a cautious part of me urged; wake up before you can't go back.

"Careful," Wesley warned when my grip began to ease slowly, as if I was going to let the ball fall from my fingers. "You don't want to drop that."

Since when? I shook my head, gripping the ball tightly again. "This doesn't make sense. Why would I dream about this?" My gaze was stuck on the distant lights for a long time, trying to understand. When I looked back at him, Wesley's eyes hooked into mine. Sharp and a steely gray, these were eyes I recognized. Capable of anything.

"Because you're a self-castigating vampire with a desire to be normal. What's more normal than the all-American game?" Wesley's lips turned down into a grimace and his face grew sad. I recognized that as well, from too many mornings when he would come into work with his skin drawn tightly over his cheekbones and his gaze haunted. Suddenly Wesley's load of despair didn't seem so light anymore. "And we both know why I'm here."

"And why's that Wesley? To be my counselor? Maybe my conscience?" I dropped the ball to the ground even as Wesley flinched at the abrupt movement. We both stood still, staring at each other, and then he bent to grab it. Irritation slashed my heart callously. Stop running!

I don't know quite why, but I gripped Wesley's shoulders to keep him from retrieving it, shoving him back. His eyes were wide and searing as he stumbled a few steps away. Wesley took a patch of grass with him, and it stained his shiny dress shoes. I almost laughed. Even here, I couldn't make Wesley less than a tight-ass. "The last thing I need is someone else inside my head."

I needed something else entirely, and he was standing before me with a hard look on his face, breathing roughly through parted lips. "Give it to me," I wanted to beg, but I was far too proud. And so sick of waiting for him to come back to me.

A large truck passed the field, rumbling angrily down the street. My gaze jerked to it through the chain link fence, wondering at the realism of this particular dream, and then back to Wesley, frustrated when I saw that he was still glaring at me. I had seen enough of that look when I was awake, for Christ's sake.

I knew there would be no second chances.

"You can't frighten me here, Angel." Wesley said, straightening his spine and reaching up to scrub a hand over his jaw, where a shadow of a beard grew. "And you can't lie to yourself. We used to be friends. And I used to love you, in a way. In my way."

Hard to remember, but I had to. The look he used to carry about him that was all gentle concern and no hate.

"Right," I scoffed, swallowing hard around the truth. Pushing it down. "You were all over Fred like disease on a whore."

"Yes, but before that, I wanted you. You knew it." Wesley's eyes became hooded, like he was embarrassed. His cheeks tightened as I looked on. Tension crept into his shoulders. "I was never very good at hiding it."

Concealing the pain, I dipped my chin into my chest, sighing stale air from my mouth. Cycling it through my body as if I was breathing. "No," I replied bluntly. But I could still be sorry for it. "And I was. I wish I hadn't been."

The air tensed as my words registered to him. Seemed to punch him right in the heart and make his face swing down and away, eyes falling from mine, as his body became a solid slate of lust, stiff with repressed desire.

"I'm just a figment of your imagination," Wesley began, breath coming harder, making his bottom lip shudder with the suction of air. He looked desperate, reaching up to scrub fingers through his cropped hair. My lower back suddenly felt unbearably tight. I wanted to MOVE, take him. Be taken. God, I just wanted to reach out, grab Wesley by his ears, and kiss the hell INTO him. A sparkle of mischief in his eyes struck me immovable. "But you can do a lot with imagination, Angel. Tell me you want me."

A plea, and the words coming from his lips nearly sent me into a fit of coughing. I licked my lips, taking a step forward, knees nearly trembling. Desire was hot and heavy, difficult to carry around so long. I wanted this surreal night with him too badly for my own good. "You know I do."

He raised a sharp eyebrow, disbelief apparent. His face glossed over with a sneer "Who says?" Wesley inquired bitterly, crossing his arms over his chest. The harsh lighting slanted over his face, shown down on him like an impenetrable shield. As if to say no one could reach into his space. I froze, not moving any closer to the man that had been HAUNTING me. Only a stretch of grass and soft sand remained between us, but it felt like an ocean of blood. His blood and my son's. "You need to say it."

"If you're just a figment, then you already know," I muttered, fingers balling into a fist. "Damn it, Wesley. You're just as hard to be around in my head as you are when I'm awake."

Wesley smiled cruelly. But his eyes were dark and steady, as if trying to make a point. Whatever that point was, I only felt driven through, like a blade stuck out from my torso and there was NOTHING I could do about it.

"Talent, Angel," Wesley said. The smile dimmed a bit. Looked awkward. "It's all talent. Or maybe you just don't like me any other way. After all, you DID say you didn't want anyone else in your head."

"Then why don't you get out?" I bit out at him, stepping forward again. Wesley only sighed. Remained unimpressed. "I shouldn't have to beg for it in my own dream. Maybe I'll call up Spike for a fantasy or two. He was always good for a round!"

Wesley simply shrugged and moved to turn away. My hand shot out, and I caught him by the wrist, tugging him to a stop. I hadn't meant a word of it. Was already sorry. Spun like a spider's web, desire and anger at Wesley had planted itself inside my heart, making it impossible to separate the two.

I burned to have him inside me, and he just didn't seem to understand how truly awful it was. To sit and think about him when I shouldn't be, to fight a losing battle. Wanting him when I couldn't have him. Having gone through it before didn't make it any easier to take.

Addiction could be like that when it reared its ugly head. Painful and deluding. And I was most certainly very addicted to the man before me. "C'mon, Wesley. Just--you know I have feelings for you. I'm not completely sure what they are, but there has to be a reason why I'd dream about you tonight. Insert you into all the things I want most."

"Baseball and someone to fuck?" Wesley smiled sadly. His red scar shimmered beneath his button-up shirt. A reminder of the past that would never go away. "Sounds like a good life."

"I care," I said slowly, feeling my throat stretch around the words. "I try not to think about you, but I can't help it. You gave me your blood. Do you know how much that means to me after what's happened between us?"

Wesley sighed. The lines were back on his face. "I wouldn't put too much hope in that. I only did it because I couldn't let you die. And I knew--" He grimaced as if the words were distasteful to him. "I knew it would hurt you."

"We're good at hurting each other," I replied wearily, thinking of all the times I'd said things just to see Wesley flinch back. How good it had felt. Like killing once had. My feet scuffed in the sand, wanted to move forward without me. Take the chance. "You know me too well. I hate it."

Loved it. Needed it.

Wesley's eyes flashed dangerously at me, cracking with whispers of things we'd never spoken about. "I don't know you at all Angel, I never have. You've only wanted me to. How could I know you when you never truly let me in?"

I ignored that. Had to. "I don't want to hurt you anymore."

"Then don't!" Wesley burst out, losing his cool and tossing his hands into the air. The whispers were replaced with shouts. I followed those flailing hands with my heated gaze. Imagined them doing something altogether different. "No one is forcing you to."

"You are," I said. Shook my head in frustration. "The other you. You won't let it stop. What happened won't go away."

Pillow. Wesley. Flashing through my head like a merry-go-round, and then his blood burning my stomach and putting all that desire inside me, where it didn't belong.

"That other me isn't here now, is he? It's just you," Wesley emphasized that by reaching out and pressing his thumb against my bottom lip. "And me." And then pressed it against his own, tonguing the tip. I tracked that delicious finger, watched Wesley wet his mouth with it.

Torture. This dream was torture in spades and probably manufactured by Wesley himself. Somehow. And that wasn't so farfetched now, was it? Hell, we'd already been through the same thing with Darla.

Another day was just another scar, right? I wasn't sure I could take any more without going crazy. Fuck it. Fuck Wesley and fuck being good. I was tired of trying to keep myself in check. Wesley should have known it would be like this. Give a vampire your blood and you might as well be giving up yourself.

He knew what was coming; a slow smile burning a trail from his eyes to his mouth. I reached out and wrapped my fingers around the nape of Wesley's neck, dragging him close and stealing his mouth. Sealing it with my lips and holding him so tight he couldn't escape. I didn't care if he wanted to kiss me back or not, because he was going to. Even if it was just this once. Even if it wasn't real at all.

Take that, Wesley. Talk around it, psychoanalyze it and hurt me with it. But I get to keep it. Mine now.

It was like a drug, I realized under a harsh wave of desire. That's what Wesley's kiss was. A narcotic to keep coming back for, that made the body shake without mercy when it couldn't have it. When I pushed my tongue past his teeth, so ready for the taste, Wesley's was there to meet me fully. He drove the kiss in a deeper direction, twisting his lips against mine and opening his mouth wide. Wesley's fingers came up to grip my jaw, leaving bruises that I could only wish were real. The pain would remain; that, I could count on waking up to. When it came to Wesley, everything just built up inside, slipping insidiously to the surface when I couldn't keep it buried any longer.

My hand clenched on the back of his neck when I felt him step up, pressing his hard body against mine. I could feel his erection fill with blood, stabbing my thigh. I couldn't help but move against it, loving the knowledge that I'd done this to a man who'd had me at his mercy for weeks now. Months even, when I was beneath the ocean with so much time to think and drive myself crazy over what I had done -- or hadn't.

Black water wasn't much to look at and somehow, I'd known his face would be the next thing I'd see.

Pulling back, Wesley fisted his hands in my hair, staring at me with a stormy gaze. "Finally getting a clue, Angel?" he demanded gruffly. God, I loved the way he did that now. Like he'd discovered a side of himself that had only been waiting to come out. Take over. I nodded, eyeing Wesley's lips so near my own. His breath washed over my face in hot waves that left me sucking it in through my nose, like it didn't matter that I was dead and he would probably die soon. "It's about time."

"I've had a clue for a long time, Wes," I groaned roughly from the back of my scratchy throat, drawing my fingers over the back of Wesley's skull, where that brilliant brain of his lay beneath. "I can't stand it. I want it all back. I want to fuck you. Or be your friend."

"I can't say I'm fond of you trying to kill me," Wesley panted out, face flushed. I flinched back, immediately sick with the memory. "Not high on my list of favored activities. But I guess we're even. You've been feeling pretty awful lately, haven't you? Cordelia's gone. Connor hates you. I hate you. And you just want the bloody hell out of me, don't you? Now you know how it feels to want something you can't even touch."

Teeth clenched, I leaned forward and kissed him again. Just to make him shut up. Just to make it stop hurting so much. A dream shouldn't hurt, should it? It should make you feel better. I didn't.

"Show me, Angel," Wesley whispered urgently into my open mouth, as though he'd been waiting for a long, long time. Our lips moved together in a familiar heat, molding and reshaping against each other. Fingers pressed down on my shoulders, impatiently. Needy. "Show me how much you want me."

It wasn't possible to show him when I was only realizing the depth myself, but I nodded, running my tongue in a teasing caress along Wesley's top lip, reveling in the taste so long denied to me. The blood swelling up Wesley's mouth made my stomach clench in need, and my hand moved down to open the buttons of his shirt. I wasn't gentle, popping a few off their threads in my haste. Wesley broke the kiss and looked down at my movements, eyelashes brushing his cheek. I watched him closely, entranced.

Around us, the world didn't blur, but sharpened to a pinpoint of sensation. I could hear the sound of people laughing down the street, their lips mashing together in a guilty kiss. I listened to the beating of their hearts, outpaced by Wesley's, thundering against the back of my fingers as I worked my way down the shirt.

Off. Had to get it OFF. I could smell arousal rising from his skin and wanted to taste it. Wanted to stay there. Never wake up.

Screaming again, the tide between us. There was so much to scream about, like the scent of dirt and grass that burned through my head, mixing with the copper of Wesley's blood and the tang of his cologne. Every time he breathed, it was our whispers screaming.

When Wesley arched his neck back, my eyes caught on the sight of his throat bared. White and glazed with the beginnings of perspiration, he appeared to be offering himself to me again, like that vicious night on the boat, rocking back and forth with his life inside me. I quickly took advantaged and nipped at the revealed flesh. He gasped, meaning: yes, yes, right there.

Freeing the last button from its hole, I ran a palm slowly down Wesley's chest. Took it in, the texture of the coarse hair, the soft skin beneath. Nearly moaned when the shirt parted, spreading to show pale skin cut into trim muscles. My fingers humped over them, wanting to ride them like a baseball player rides the bases. Again and again, that baseball player runs across them with fear and hope in his heart. A desire so intense, I'd always been able to see it from the dark shade of the dug out, amazed at how passionate they were about getting home.

It was an agony to see Wesley want me and know it wasn't real. But I'd take him any way I could have him, and this was all there was. Tucking the shirt away from his shoulders, I surveyed the firm line of his throat and collarbone, the throbbing between my thighs insistent. Licked my top lip and sucked Wesley's skin between my teeth, biting him sharply enough to have the younger man stiffening. The quickening heartbeat lashed at my ears.

Screamed: `Do it! Do it! Do it!'

I surrounded Wesley with relentless arms, pulling him close and licking at his neck like I was something starving that could NEVER be set loose, not even in a dream. And God help me, I was when it came to him.

`Never,' my brain whispered in horror. `He never should have given me his blood.'

"Show me," Wesley said again. This time it was a demand. I pulled away from his shoulder, staring at the livid mark of my teeth there, and tried to clear my head. No such luck, not with Wesley's fingers running up over my neck and touching the side of my mouth. Dancing down, down, away from safe territory. Where I'd like his mouth. I cried out when fingers wrapped around my fabric-covered dick, stroking until I was harder than hell and straining for a firmer touch. My hips arched into the empty air when the hand moved away and stroked over my quivering thigh.

"Fuck," I gritted out, closing my eyes tightly. Everything in me throbbed for something more than play. "Fine," I growled when I could speak again without ripping his head off. "Your way, then." With that said, I dropped to my knees on the mound of dirt, ruining the knees of my pants. But it was a dream, so it didn't really matter, did it? It was Wesley.

Not supplication. Not surrender. I WANTED him this way.

For the life of me, I couldn't believe I was about to suck Wesley off in a baseball field, with the bright lights surrounding us, and music humming in my ears. `Take me out the ball game, Wesley.' I thought. `It's about fucking time that you do.'

Wesley sucked in his stomach reflexively when I placed firm hands onto his hips, and stroked him through the cotton slacks. Anticipation ignited, shivering through his limbs like the flare of a freshly struck match. Leaning forward, I placed my lips on that hot, well-muscled stomach, right above his navel. And licked a line from there to the center of his chest, wanting nothing more than to feel him shiver in painful delight.

"God," he hissed through his teeth and I wanted to tell him that God had nothing to do with it, but my mouth was busy tasting him. There were dark secrets to be found in the dip below his navel, a taste or two that I'd only been able to fantasize about.

I smiled against him when I realized that this, too, was nothing more than an elaborate dream. And I didn't want to wake up. Not when I could have him here like this, and there was nothing standing between us but my fucked up bag of fears.

Knowing Wesley was lost in the moment, I unbuckled his belt and undid his zipper, parting the cloth as I sucked hard on his lower belly, leaving a trail of pink bruises in my wake. His blood was at the surface, swimming toward my mouth, but I didn't give into the temptation to just--sink my teeth into him--although it would certainly be easy. Even here, I couldn't chance getting more addicted than I already was.

Unable to keep myself from doing it, though I knew it would torture me for a lifetime or two afterward, I turned my eyes up to Wesley. His stomach muscles were twitching and his jaw looked like it might crack if he ground his teeth together any harder. But it was his eyes that got me, staring down into my own like he could shove his thoughts right inside my head. Like he wanted to.

So this was the Wesley in my dreams. Focused completely, and utterly on me.

Slowly, teasingly, I pressed gentle kisses on the skin above his boxer briefs. Another tug on his pants and they fell to his knees. The scent of him was so strong that my head was spinning. `So easy,' my mind repeated, `so easy.' Wesley touched his hand to my cheek and I looked at him again. He was a portrait of studied seriousness, stroking his finger along the side of my face, caressing the corner of my mouth, and then pushing me away from him a little so that he could slip his fingers beneath the elastic waist of his underwear and lift them slowly down over his erection.

Good thing it was a dream. If we'd really been out here, we'd have been thrown in jail by now. Staring at his cock, inches from my lips and throwing off heat like a wood stove, my stomach stuttered into a ball of starvation.

"Show me," Wesley said once more, his voice as husky as the bark on a tree. "Show me how badly you want me."


Leaning forward, I licked the head of his cock, grinning viciously when he gave a gasp of breath and arched his hips up toward me. He rode my mouth then, held my chin and pushed his penis against my taunting lips.

C'mon Wesley, I thought. It's about time you made a decision yourself.

"You're loving this, aren't you?" Wesley panted down at me, threading his fingers into my hair as I laved at him with my tongue and bobbed my head down onto his cock. I didn't bother to answer. Stupid question, Wes. Possessively, I gripped his ass in hard palms and moved his hips where I wanted them to be, thrusting gently and steadily into my mouth.

Tasting. Tasting. Tasting. Except this time it wasn't his arm, but still, somehow, it was the same. Goddamn him for not being real. Sucking harder, I thought of all the ways I could make the real Wesley beg for this. I thought of not making him beg, just tying him down and taking him that way. I thought of just having him. Taking. I thought: mine now. Don't try to run, because I'll catch you. Thought that, and said nothing.

I could feel the tension radiating from his lower stomach, clenching tightly and releasing on a moan of breath, with every stroke of my tongue along the underside of his cock.

Is this showing you, Wesley? Is this making it clear how badly I want you?

Abruptly, he gripped my face and shoved me away from him. A growl burst from a hard spot in my throat and I lunged back at him, but he deflected me by falling to his knees and grabbing my chin, bringing his lips down onto my own. I kissed him desperately, hungrily, because damn him, who was he to make me stop? Another rejection from him, making me cringe into his mouth even as I sucked his tongue into my own.

He was trying to say something, but I couldn't stop crushing his body to mine, rolling my imprisoned dick against the hard length of his. Didn't want to wake up now and I was so afraid that I would.

"It's all right," Wesley whispered, sucking air past his teeth. "It's all right, Angel. It's all right." But it wasn't. He was a liar, I was a murderer, and things were never going to be okay between us again. I knew it. Couldn't face it without feeling sick to my stomach at all the lost opportunities. "Turn around, Angel."

Blinking, I pulled back and looked at him with startled eyes. "What?"

Wesley smiled slowly, with purpose. "You heard me."

Over a hundred years since I've had someone fuck me, but I knew those eyes. I knew that look and those intentions.

In the middle of a baseball field, with my cock throbbing and my heart so still in my chest that it hurt, I turned on my knees and unzipped my pants. My thighs were trembling as I pushed the cloth down over them toward my knees and freed my cock. Wesley moved behind me and I glanced at him over my shoulder, eyeing the sharp bones in his face and the slice of his mouth, red and parted.

"Lubrication or no?" Wesley inquired, raising a small tube into my line of sight. I swallowed with a dry throat and just stared at him. "Lubrication, then."

And then he was slicking me up with the gel and I was arching my ass against him, searching for his fingers and holding him inside me. Stretched, fitted, waiting to be fucked. Everything began to move quickly in the way that it does before you wake up, a dream spinning at the edges. A space of motion and time that split like a broken atom, and then he was lying on my back, panting into my ear and thrusting inside me. Pushing, growling at me, and forcing me open.

"Yes," he muttered. "Been a while, has it?" Wesley's fingers jerked my cock and I pushed back onto him, rode his penis and cried out at the pressure of being stabbed inside. "For me as well. So long since I've been inside a man. Since I first came to L.A. and there you were, beautiful and untouchable."

"Fuck me," I was saying. "Fuck me. Fuck me. C'mon, Wesley. Fuck me."

Had to hurry. Had to get this done.

Wesley chuckled into my neck, but it died out into a groan of pleasure as he began hammering his penis into me, biting the nape of my neck and pushing me forward until my knees scuffed the dirt and my fingers tore up the grass. Wesley wrapped his arm around my stomach, jerking me back against him even as his hand slowed, stopped pulling so quick and hard on my cock.

C'mon, c'mon, c'mon. I tossed my head back, nearly knocking my skull into his chin, and swearing up a storm. Something was out there, a sea of black filling the sky and shrouding the huge lights. It hissed that my time was up.

Wesley's thrusts became sloppy and uneven, hitting all the right spots inside me. I shifted my weight onto one arm so that I could use the other to wrap his fingers more properly around my prick, making him stroke it harder, more firmly, as we both watched the black cloud circle us.

Breath caught, Wesley froze on me, choking deep in his throat and then shoving into me one final, hard time. Heat filled me, like blood, like love, like lust burning straight from my groin and onto the dirt below us.

Like I was alive. I twisted my head to the side and Wesley's palm held the side of my face, as we kissed with teeth and very little tongue, just grinding our mouths together.

"Never say I didn't take you anywhere," Wesley hummed. I laughed, nearly died with it, and looked up to where the sky was no longer glinting with fluorescent light. Normalcy extinguished.

The black cloud hissed, `time's up.'


You wake up silently, without a cry or a sharp motion. You know your hell too well for that. Open your eyes and stare at the ceiling. Your thigh is wet where you've masturbated in your sleep. You don't feel like you've slept at all. Moving slowly, you sit up in bed and look toward the wall, where shapes shift like fickle hearts.

You remember Wesley standing in the center of your bedroom while Cordelia lay dying. You remember a lot of things. Most of them you'd rather not.

The hunger is already rushing through you, making your fingers pulse with the lack of HIM to touch. Wesley's not here and you have no right to ask him to be, though you have and will again. Your brief respite is over and all you're left with is a deadly addiction and the knowledge that one day you're going to break, and you'll do anything to take him with you.

Standing, your bones creak with age. As dawn approaches, you'll stand by the window and see how gentle the wind can be. Your patience is wearing thin, but you push the window up and open, touch the breeze with your bare stomach and close your eyes. Daring yourself constantly to just give in, plead for another taste.

These dreams of him are driving you to the edge quicker than you expected. One day, you're going to do something bad that you won't regret and blame it on him.

One day, and you know it's dangerous to even contemplate it. But one day, you won't be satisfied by the wind. And Angelus is so much worse at waiting than you are.


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