Title: Oral Hygiene

Author: Shala Atare (shalandree@hotmail.com)

Website: no site

Rating: NC-17

Pairing/main characters: Angel/Iceman

Series/Sequel: complete

Summary: Glue. Steam. Toothpaste. Lots and lots of Warren. Bobby is a happy man.

Disclaimer: Suing me would cause me to cry in front of the judge, resulting in huge embarrassment for everyone involved. Save yourselves the pain. They aren't mine.

Archive/distribution: Ask me. But I´ll say yes.

Notes: A million thanks to Jemi, who came up with the title.

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Oral Hygiene

By Shala Atare

 

"C'mon, Warren, let me in!" My elbow makes a hollow thump as it hits the bathroom door. My arm tingles. Ow. "I gotta wash the glue off before it dries! Or I'll have to spend all afternoon peeling it off like lizard skin, and you know looking at that makes your toes curl."
The door swings open before I can make another pass with my elbow. Warren blinks at me through the water dripping down his face. "Glue, Bobby?" A glance down at my be-slimed hands. One eyebrow raised in sarcastic query.
His wings are taking up the whole doorway. I push past him to the sink. And resist the urge to coat a handful of feathers with adhesive. "Yeah, I was leaving a little "present" for Scott and the tube burst." The mirror is steamed up. "You didn't leave hairs in the soap, did you?"
"You wound me." One hand raised to his heart, the other clutching at the towel around his waist. "We both know that Hank is the culprit."
The glue-and-soap feels slick between my fingers. The water warms slowly as the tap runs. The steamy mirror beckons. Who am I to refuse? Soapsuds drip down my arm as I draw a smiley face, my fingers squeaking on the glass. "I need to take longer showers. The mirror is never steamed up when I get out."
A blue arm reaches around me for the toothpaste. "I think that's because we always run out of hot water before you can drag yourself out of bed."
I add curly hair and a cigar to the smiley face. "Considering the state of my social life, that's probably a good thing."
The sound of vigorous brushing is all the reply I get. The mirror is clearing slowly, the smiley face fading back into invisibility. I can see Warren over my shoulder, arm flexing as he works the toothbrush around in his mouth.
Red toothbrush. Blue skin. Little trickle of white foam at the corner of his mouth. How patriotic.
The air smells of steam and herbs. Lemongrass.
Warren's towel is slipping. Is he doing that on purpose?
Okay, Bobby. Look away now.
Oh my god, he has got to be doing that on purpose.
I yank my eyes back up to his face; meet his gaze in the mirror. I can feel the blood saturate my face...and other things. Oh, please. Not now.
Red toothbrush. In, out. In, out. Around and in. "Will you cut that out?"
That eyebrow again. A muffled "Mmff?"
Face really red now. "Uh...forget it."
And it turns out that Warren's one of those people who can pat their head and rub their stomach at the same time, because he's combing his hair with the other hand and now nothing is holding up that towel.
The water's running over my hands but I can't move. Every time I move I rub up against the counter and if I turn around now I'm going to have to kill myself in mortification.
Tight little movements with the comb, muscles flexing in his chest and down his waist and the towel slips down another inch. Now I can see the beginning of a soft trail of blond hair, startling against blue skin and leading down into that lucky, lucky towel. Green towel. Green, lucky towel.
The tap is the annoying kind that gradually cuts off the flow of hot water, and now the stream of wetness running over my hands is cold. And the mirror isn't steamy at all.
Will you please stop looking at his crotch? He's going to notice! This is Warren. You do not look at Warren's crotch.
Or at least not since you got past that hugely embarrassing crush when you were seventeen.
Woohoo, looks like certain portions of your anatomy are nostalgic for the good old days.
His wings are trembling, shedding droplets with every quiver. A small puddle is forming around his feet. Feet that lead effortlessly up into long muscle and bone leading up into That. Damn. Towel. A little trickle of water winds down his left shin, leaving a trail that glints in the light.
I drag my eyes back up past stomach and chest - nipples. Blue nipples - to fix my eyes on his face again. He's looking straight at me, the toothbrush arrested in mid-thrust, eyes wide. I wouldn't have believed there was enough blood left in the upper half of my body to blush any darker, but I find some. That would probably explain the sudden dizziness. No blood reaching my brain.
The water is really cold now, and it just makes my face feel hotter. He noticed. Shit shit shit. He noticed. And now bad things are probably going to happen. My eyes are locked onto his, and I can feel my face straining to blush a deeper shade of scarlet but it has to share the blood supply with a hard-on that would put a porn star to shame. Shit.
And then the corner of his mouth twists up around his toothbrush into a smile.
His lips change, wrap around the toothbrush like a lollipop. And he drags it out sloooowly, oh so red and coated with white foam. And I guess he swallows the paste, because his words aren't garbled when he says "Isn't the soap working?"
"Whuh?" That voice cannot possibly belong to me. When have I ever sounded so...shell-shocked? Why, since Warren Worthington III stood two feet behind you in nothing but a towel and asked you - asked you -
"Yes! I mean, it's fine, yeah, glue's coming off, no problemo, slowly but surely - " My hands are making frantic wringing motions under the freezing spurt of water. I fix my eyes on my fingers and very determinedly do not look up into the mirror.
Which is why the hand reaching over my shoulder makes my heart try to escape straight back through my spine. "Guh!"
Blue hand, sky blue, blue nails, why didn't I ever notice the nails before?
Makes a pass through the water. Wraps around the handle and turns it off. Runs back up along my arm, comes to rest in the crook of my elbow. Warm, wet hand.
Hand that tugs me around, and my eyes are closed because I am not going to look at him. Am. Not.
He's standing so close to me. I can sense him through my t-shirt. If I inhale I'll touch him. Don't breath, Bobby.
"Look at me?" His breath makes a warm little puff on my cheek, smells overwhelmingly of mint.
"Nnn." My lungs are protesting. We need air, Bobby. Air is a good thing. It keeps you alive. I try to breath without letting my chest expand.
I risk a peek through my eyelashes. Warren's face is less than three inches from mine, his wings are half-spread - all he can manage in a confined space. An intolerable smirk on his...lips that just plead to be kissed, look at that lower lip, isn't that excruciating? Kiss me, Bobby.
A small shift in his stance, and his groin says hello to mine as his mouth meets my shoulder, tongue and teeth through thin material, and that towel must have been invented expressly as a torture device because the way Warren feels pressed up against me it isn't going to help dry him off.
"Ooooooh." A long groan and my hips press forward without conscious direction. The moisture in his mouth soaks through my shirt and I don't want to touch him because I'll get glue on him. His mouth travels up my shoulder, settles on my neck with a tiny nip and That Is It. My entire body surges forward and my lips are in his hair, still damp and smelling of lemongrass and kiwi and Warren. Hands on his wings, who cares about glue? Fingers find the joints and stroke and Warren growls into my throat and presses back into my grip. Found an erogenous zone. Yay.
Hand on the hem of my t-shirt, under my t-shirt, clever hand finding a nipple and running a nail over it with just enough force to translate directly to my erection. My jeans weren't this small when I put them on. And he presses his wings forward against my grasp and sort of shimmies his hips into mine and my lungs are really starting to hate me.
My mouth presses against his hair, his forehead, everything I can reach. The feathers in his wings are so soft, like kitten fur or...angel feathers. Nothing's softer than angel feathers. I can feel the beginning of a crazy grin start to stretch my lips. I bend and place a kiss on the corner of his eye instead. His skin tastes so clean.
I pull a hand out of his wing, dragging feathers after me, and finally, finally do something about that towel. I have you now, evil fiend. There is no escape.
Warren, naked. One long, smooth sweep of muscle and skin and heat. His wings are straining against the walls now, the tips curving around to enclose us in a space within a space, just Bobby and Warren and the sink and the mirror.
Wait.
What the hell am I doing?
He stills as I do, lifts his head to look at my face. Reads the hesitation there. Smiles that twisted little smirk. A single easy motion brings him to his knees, sweeping his wings forward and up to give my hands easy access. And zzzzip. One part of my body is very happy. Hello.
And suddenly happier, because Warren's mouth is there and fuck. Fuck. Just heat, and slickness and his tongue is doing that? No way.
Hands moving down along his wings, reaching his shoulders, the point where the feathers become flesh, and my hands know something I don't because they circle there and Warren moans around me and Jesus. I can't see.
No real sound in the bathroom, just two sets of strained breathing and the hissing rustle of feathers that stroke the wet air back and forth, back and forth as my thumbs knead the base of his wings.
One of his hands slides up my leg, ankle to knee, and pauses, and he's just discovered a whole new way of killing me because I can't breath, can't see, can't move, I'm going to suffocate but it's going to be so good. Oh god.
And his other hand reaches up under my shirt again and finds a nipple, twists.
I'm coming, fuck, I think I'm making some kind of noise but I can't hear anything past the rushing in my ears and I can't see anything except a blinding whiteness until I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate on not dying as my entire body snaps forward and god, god.
It's a long time before I can hear myself, hear the tiny panicked breaths my lungs are forcing through my nose, because my teeth are almost meeting through my lip and my throat is constricted and my mouth sure a hell isn't much good for breathing right now.
It's even longer before I can feel the rest of me, can order my fingers to let go their death grip on Warren's wings and slide up to cup his head where it leans against my belly. He raises his head and grins up at me, and there's a little trickle of white at the corner of his mouth but it isn't foam this time.
Another graceful movement brings him to his feet, his face back on level with mine. His lips are swollen, bruised-looking. I push a kiss against them, soothe them with my tongue, and taste myself. Not too salty. I can still smell lemongrass, now mixed with sweat.
I run a hand down his chest, reach for him, but his hand intercepts mine, twines with it despite the glue. It's finally my turn to raise an eyebrow.
There's a crack in that polished exterior after all. He looks embarrassed. "It's okay. The wings...they're sensitive."
I take a look down and discover that it is, indeed, okay, and that I'm going to have to change out of these jeans before it dries.
"Um. Sorry I got glue on you." Not what I wanted to say, but how can I say what I wanted to say? Thank you for the blowjob, Warren. Huh. Maybe not.
"I'd have to take another shower anyway." He leans forward, kisses my cheekbone lingeringly. Shoves me towards the door. "Now get out of here so can brush my teeth again."
I hope I don't meet anyone on the way to the downstairs bathroom.

 

END