Chocolate Cream
By Fyre
Author: Fyre
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Erm...eppy that Angel goes nuts and sacks people. *shrugs*
I dunno. haven't seen any of S2.
Pairing: Wesley/Gunn
Summary: Random PWP
Improv: jade - possession - hidden - memento
Notes: I was bored. Do I need to say more? :)
____________________________________________
"Wes, bro, what are you doin'?"
Blue eyes rise the meet brown, the soft lighting from the interior
of the refrigerator casting velvety shadows.
Gunn frowns. He didn't expect to wake up in Wes' bed, after
fighting
that motherfucker of a demon. He didn't expect to find himself
stripped to his boxers. And most of all, he didn't expect to find
the
quiet Englishman standing in the kitchen of the silent apartment,
licking chocolate syrup from his fingers far too suggestively.
"What have you been drinkin'?"
A small smile pulls very British lips up, a single finger rises to
press against full, dark lips in a 'hush' motion. "Sh." He whispers
enigmatically, his finger moving, feather-light, along Gunn's lower
lip.
The younger of the two knows he should pull away, knows Wesley must
be drunk, but he can't. He parts his lips to protest. The taste of
chocolate floods his senses, brushed over his lip by a careless
finger.
Drawing back, lowering his head to gaze up at Gunn from beneath
surprisingly long lashes, the Englishman lifts his chocolate-coated
fingers to his lips, takes one at a time and licking it clean
carefully, methodically. In a way that is pure Wesley.
"Haven't been drinking." His voice is soft. "Just
hungry." His eyes
wander Gunn's bare chest. "Very hungry." Wesley's
smile becomes
dangerously predatorial, blue eyes gleaming in the dim glow.
"Haven't
eaten in forever."
Gunn bites on the inside of his lip, the scent of the chocolate
growing stronger. He doesn't even like chocolate, for chrissake! And
Wesley. Does he like Wes – the tight ass – Wyndham-Pryce?
That way?
He doesn't know.
His fingers clean, Wesley gives him that tiny smile again, takes a
step closer. Blue eyes latch onto the darker man's chocolate-smeared
lip, the tip of a pink tongue flicking out to moisten pale lips.
That motion drips lust and Gunn wishes he could find the strength
to move. Too late. Too late, he knows. He wants to move, doesn't he?
If he wants to move so bad, he should be able to do it. Just turn and
walk away.
A soft, bookman's hand touches his cheek, tilts his face up. A
glint of humour sparkles blue, then warmth permeates him as Wesley's
soft tongue brushes along his lip, cleaning away any remnants of the
chocolate.
It is a light touch. Barely even contact at all, but a shiver
spreads through Gunn's body. His head fills with images of Wesley's
lips elsewhere, of the Englishman's body arching against his own, of
whispered words and more of those tiny smiles.
Maybe he does want him after all. Maybe he will take the chance,
have some while the goings good.
Of its own volition, his hand rises, dips into the china bowl
cradled in Wesley's hands. Dripping chocolate syrup, he trails his
fingertips along his own collarbone, eyes on Wesley, following the
other man's light gaze. Feels the syrup slide down over his chest,
caressing his nipples, down to his belly, over his pectorals.
Blue eyes are alight with the devil's own humour, dancing. One
perfectly groomed finger runs through the trail of syrup, lifts to
the bare, pale torso and carefully etches four letters across the
broad breast.
"Messy." He tuts, bends to lap delicately at the pool of chocolate
liquid in the hollow of the younger man's shoulder.
Dark eyes flare with desire, the warm lips and teasing tongue more
gentle and intimate than anything he has felt in far too many months.
He bares his neck, feels questing lips journey up until they brushed
–
a hair's breadth – from his own.
Pale lips are smeared with sweetness. They rise in a smile,
waiting. Gunn leans forward, sweeps his tongue along, savouring the
flavour, the Wes-flavour mingling with the syrup until he feels a
gentle tongue brush his own. It's like electricity.
Both men pull back, Wesley's hands resting on Charles' dark,
muscular shoulder, fingers moving in light circles on warm skin.
"What the fuck are we doin'?" Gunn asks himself more than Wesley,
feeling a strange urge to possess this quiet, unassuming and subtly
handsome man. Make him his own, share all that he had, which wasn't
much. Find out what the fuck was goin' on in the guy's pretty
little
head.
"Nothing." The innocence in the Englishman's voice just screams
sex, pale, soft fingers massaging tense shoulders carelessly. Wes'
voice seemed to have gotten lower, huskier. Gunn reluctantly meets
those blue eyes, knowing that when he does, he's gonna fall and fall
hard. "I was just cleaning you up."
Charles finds the former Watcher's gaze. The incredible blueness of
those eyes takes his breath away. The colour of a summer sky, flecked
with specks of jade, glinting with the wealth of hidden mischief he
had never imagined the other man to possess. He's beautiful. So
fucking beautiful.
"You haven't done good so far." He starts at his voice. Does he
really sound like he's willing to drop to his knees and beg Wes to
touch him? He pauses to think on that for a moment, feels one of Wes'
hands slide down over his breast. No question – the answer is one
hundred percent of a HELL YES!
The Englishman's lips rise a fraction, his trimmed thumbnail
scraping over a flat nipple. Bending close, halting, his face
millimeters from Gunn's own, he shifts his hand teasingly over the
younger man's firm chest. "Let me..." He murmurs, breath rippling
warmly on tingling on anticipatory skin. "Get that..." His hand
circles, lips touching with every word. "For you."
Charles manages to stem a whimper, but can't prevent one hand
rising and pulling Wesley's mouth hard against his own. He feels more
than sees the smile, then the teasing flick of a warm tongue against
his lips.
"Patience, my boy." The words are spoken against his eager lips,
those devilish British lips travelling southwards, lavishing lips and
nibbles to all patches of skin with the slightest semblance of
chocolate goodness smeared there.
One hand slams against the refrigerator door to hold himself
upright, head lolling back against the cool surface. "Shit, Wes!" The
mischievous mouth never stops its descent, the Englishman sinking to
his knees and lingering on the tensed ridges of Gunn's solid stomach.
Light fingers dance up the back of the younger man's thighs,
sliding silkily up under tattered boxer shorts. Dipping his tongue
into the chocolatey pool in Gunn's navel, Wesley runs a hand over one
firm buttock, feels Gunn shiver.
Regaining his footing, the Englishman, gazes down at the breathless
Charles, smiled slightly, one hand running up the back of the dark
man's neck, ready to draw him in for another kiss. If he understands
what will come.
He takes in the contrast, his paleness, Charles' exquisite
darkness. The toughness of the young man, concealing a frailty,
compared to his frailty concealing the heart of a tough survivor. A
survivor that no one sees.
Perhaps, he thinks, his thumb brushing a light trail up Gunn's
jugular, perhaps there may be something in between, something that
would let them find a balance.
No longer an unemployed Rogue Demon Hunter and a street kid, but
something stronger, together. He sighs, draws himself back to the
reality, finds brown eyes staring at him with rapt bewilderment.
"Wes, man..." One hand spreads on the pale chest. "You sure you
want this? You don't have to…"
Looks like he has the answer to his question. Lowering his hand, he
bows his head, senses Gunn's disappointment.
Until the Englishman's fingertips draw the elasticated waistband of
his boxers away from his body, the other hand tipping the remains of
the chocolate down over the apparent erection. "Look like I missed a
spot." Wesley whispers huskily, tossing the bowl aside with a clatter.
"Should clean it up." Gunn agrees, equally huskily, hand rising to
pulls Wesley closer, his fingers gripping wide, white shoulders.
Surprisingly strong hands slide to his hips, directing the boxers
around the chocolate-coated areas of Gunn's anatomy.
Returning to his position on bended knee before the younger man,
Wesley catches a dribble of chocolate syrup on the tip of his
fingers, lifts it to his lips and lapped it off. "Yummy." He raises
lust-darkened eyes to his counterpart, then bends forward and brushes
his tongue over the head of Gunn's waiting erection.
One arm loops over the door behind him, the other gripping the edge
of the open refrigerator. Gunn's eyes sink closed, a low sigh of
contentment whispering from his lips.
Swirling his tongue around the weeping crown, the Englishman draws
as much as he could bear of the younger man's cock into his waiting
mouth, the combined flavour of salty masculinity and the chocolate a
heady one.
Resilient fingers knead at tight buttocks. Gunn groans a little
louder as Wesley's fingers probe his puckered opening, one
tentatively pushing through the tight ring of muscle between his
buttocks, then another.
His feet skitter on the smooth floor and he gasps Wesley's name.
Feels the fingers probing deeper inside him. Its been so long since
he's been touched like this, touched at all in any way aside from
fighting. Feels Wesley's throat contract, the sensation around his
throbbing cock an unbearably good one.
He knows he can't hold off much longer, drops a shaky hand to Wes'
hair, tries to draw him away. Wes is having none of it, his other
hand caressing the younger man's sac, the pressure building, making
Gunn's head spin.
Thrusting his hips upwards, he grunts. Wes' lips seal around him,
milking every last drop from him, swallowing, his eyes filled with
some kind of mystical awe. On his feet in an instant, those delicious
lips capture Gunn's again, drawing him into a fierce kiss, hands
everywhere.
The underlying flavour of chocolate on that teasing tongue is
mingled with a host of other flavours, bitter, sweet, salty,
strong…
the flavour of Gunn himself.
Forcing himself to pull back, Gunn's hand spreads on the pale
chest, he feels the steady thump-thump-thump of the heartbeat
pounding against his fingertips, but he can't tell if it is his
or
Wesley's.
"This is wrong." He breaths, shakes his head. The
disappointment
and hurt flare in Wesley's blue eyes, eyes that have darkened to
sapphire. He moves to speak, but Gunn raises fingertips to pale lips,
smiles. "You got me off." His other hand slides to
Wesley's cock,
squeezes. "How about I return the favour?"
The tiny, suggestive smile appears again, blue eyes dancing. "I
should bloody well think so." Wesley murmurs thickly, thrusting
his
hips forward.
"You forgot something." Gunn's mouth arcs in a smirk,
his hand
moving from Wesley's lips, sliding down his body and lifting
away. "And you damn well finished the chocolate. Guess I gotta
find
somethin' else."
One dark brown brow rises, and is followed by a horrifyingly
unmanly squeal from the Englishman as a lather of ice cream is rubbed
liberally over his chest, the vanilla scent rising as the creamy
liquid melted in Gunn's hand, rippling in pale rivulets down his
arm.
Suddenly, a kitchen table had never looked so appealing.
Leaving puddles of cream and sweet-smelling brown footprints on the
floor, both men fall into a hungry embrace, aware that they will
never look at chocolate, ice cream or one another in the same way
again.
As a memento of this night.
Something they didn't want to forget.
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