A Question of Style
by Janete
April-July 2001

Disclaimers: If they were ours, we'd let them do it their own way. For a while.
Spoilers: Consider S2 Angel to be included, up until right before the Pylea eps.
Summary: Wes does some thinking and such.
Ratings Note: NC-17
Authors' Note: We love them. Lots. And Te promises to stop wounding Gunn in the shoulder. Someday.
Acknowledgments: To pretty Sheila, for asking, and for Iain, at long last. <g>
Feedback gets you a free pass from Te's next terribly insulting rant.
thete1@earthlink.net,janestclair15@hotmail.com

*

Daddy793: I think I want him thinking about it. Musing on it.

Daddy793: Has Wes ever had a male friend? Just a friend?

janefromcanada: Does Giles count?

Daddy793: Bwah!

Daddy793: No.

janefromcanada: Um, Angel?

Daddy793: Er... no.

Daddy793: Like a relatively ust-free buddyship.

janefromcanada: Secretly, I don't think Wes *has* friends. Just a couple of oddball family members who kept him from getting kicked around too much.

Daddy793: *nodding* This is what I think. So how on earth to react to *Gunn*.

janefromcanada: Somewhere between protective and fearful.

Daddy793: Desperately unsure how to respond beyond his own joy.

janefromcanada: And *wanting* something that he hasn't even got a name for.

Daddy793: That shot of Wes just *beaming* up at Gunn from the wheelchair.

janefromcanada: *whimper*

janefromcanada: This sudden revelation that someone could like him.

Daddy793: Let me noodle a second.

janefromcanada: k

Daddy793: In the free moments, Wes sometimes wonders about the people in Sunnydale. Puzzles over them, really. A close-knit group of friends and lovers, mentors and students, fighting the same fight as they do, here in L.A.

And yet it doesn't really *seem* like the same fight. They are wrapped in each other in a way that Wes now understands that he could never have been a part of. Even with the competence, the relative ease in himself he now possesses.

The Sunnydale group... they've saved the world countless times, but it's always been on a more personal level. The Angelus issue is a case in point. Despite the fact that Angelus was working on opening the world to the demon dimensions, from what Wesley has gleaned from Giles' chronicles, it was more about the vampire's doomed affair with Buffy than anything else.

Mistakes were made, hearts were broken, and *yet*.

The world was at stake, and, of the whole of them, only Xander seemed to push that particular fact. There were all sorts of interesting speculations in Giles' journal on Xander's final conversation with Buffy before the battle, on doubts and such, *but*.

How fitting that it should be the most fully human of them that would bring the group, the Slayer, back to the point at hand.

And still, Xander's own motivations for doing so would be ever in question.

To say that their methods were strange would be a truly egregious understatement. In point of fact, they were quite horrifying, really... and not something to dwell on. Wesley often had to force himself to remember that, in the end, their methods *worked*, and leave it at that.

However, he could -- and did -- wish the Sunnydale group had a style closer to their *own*.

A dangerous truth, but Wesley is *proud* of the way they handle themselves. When Angel, their own supernatural enforcer as it were, once again lost his wits (if not his soul), they continued.

Cordelia, Gunn, and himself were able to move on almost immediately, and pick up the fight once more. Wesley shudders to think how a similar event would affect their counterparts.

And, no, despite the twist in his gut when he thinks this, it is *not* hubris.

They love each other, each in their own way, but when one falls the rest do not collapse. And this, perhaps, is the way it *should* be.

They love each other. And it would be foolish for Wesley to pretend that particular truth was not the real reason for the turn of his thoughts.

A bit of padding, a bit of personal triumph to ease the way into the heart of the matter.

His relationship with Angel is forever changed, but not forever lost. A blessing, even if he misses the awkward, silly fantasies and dreams of a way to be the man's faithful servant in all ways. It would never happen. Wesley isn't the same man. Angel was never the man that Wesley needed so desperately to believe in.

Well and good.

Cordelia's suffering hurts him to the quick, but, oh, he is so very *proud* of her. She is in his heart, and perhaps even his soul. She will always be.

And Gunn. Gunn is as well, but there is more there than Wesley really wants to think about. There is *too* much there that is humiliatingly confusing. So much he doesn't know.

Gunn knows nothing about Wesley that Wesley himself hasn't shown him. The stiffness, the awkwardness... they had already been melting away when Gunn had entered his life. Surely they must have seemed minor, trifling to the man.

How easy it had been to lose them to the simple joy of company. Of... friendship.

Strange, that. An entirely new thing. His friendships in the past have been distant ones at best. Fellow students at this school or that university. Fellow Watchers in training. Three or four lovers, mostly in London while he was at Oxford. Just bodies with flats he could occupy on weekends. He remembers coming down by train and shivering miserably outside the station. The warm humidity of cabs and the close darkness of stairwells. Beds and deep kisses and mornings in which he was left to himself. The most fleeting carnality imaginable, but all he could imagine.

Friendship is something other. The stillness around him in libraries and museums and in his rooms when he studied until morning. In the early mornings, he remembers wishing for some other presence to break the silence that had gathered around him.

This, of all things, is what he has gained. Having given up his career, his family, and his country, he can read a spellbook quietly and be something other than alone. Cordelia around him in the office is a steady, fluttering presence. In spite of the materialism of her childhood, or perhaps because of it, she is startlingly aware of people. She touches Wesley and Gunn casually whenever she moves through a room. She leans against Wesley's back when she reads over his shoulder.

Comfort. This is not the girl he seduced. The adult who replaced her is more self-possessed. Graceful in a way he never expected.

Gunn smoulders in the corners of rooms. There is something eminently tribal about him, an expectation of loyalty and companionship, and an offer of them. It's Gunn who throws a one-armed hug around Wesley's shoulders while they stand over the bodies of a pair of Scurra demons, holds him so tightly that his heels leave the ground, smiles into his hair. Laughs, brilliant and dark together.

Winces only afterward, and Wesley finds himself settling Gunn back onto a half-shattered crate and pulling his shirt up to study the damage the demons' claws inflicted. Ugly, ragged wounds, though bleeding only sluggishly. Wesley studies the blood on his palm for a moment, then eases the shirt down.

"Would you like me to drive you to the hospital?"

"How bad is it?"

Wesley brushes his fingers over the shredded arm of Gunn's shirt and comes away bloody again. "I don't believe the wounds are terribly deep, and the demons' claws aren't poisoned. You might require two or three stitches, but the rest will likely only be bandaged."

Gunn wrinkles his nose. It's an odd, delicate expression. "Think you could handle it?" They have more bandages in the office than Wesley ever saw in the sarcophagi at the British Museum. He considers this and nods, wondering what Gunn must make of the smile he can't quite suppress.

For that matter, he wonders what *he* makes of it. Certainly, war wounds are nothing to smile about. At least, wounds that aren't on his *own* body. Wesley has become moderately sanguine about his pride in his ever-growing number of scars. It's not that he particularly *wants* to be chewed on by anymore hungry demons, and he could certainly live happily without being gutshot again anytime soon...

It's just... the scars against his own terminally pale skin are undeniable physical proof of his brief moments of bravery, better than any medal, any easily forgotten pat on the back from father, teacher, or erstwhile employer. Something he can see in the mirror at night, when he's alone.

Something he can touch when the dawn's light is a little too harshly unreal to be borne.

Cordelia rides behind Angel on Wesley's bike, while Wesley drives Gunn back to the hotel in Gunn's truck. Gunn is dozing slightly, something Wes has learned not to worry overmuch about. The man has a sort of smoothly rhythmic energy that carries him through the nights, but he has a knack for catching sleep whenever the opportunity arises.

They had -- bickered seems the best term -- over the issue of Gunn's surely ailing Circadian rhythms, but it had been... brief. The memory:

"Alright, alright, English. We'll make a deal."

"Yes?"

"The first time you get your full eight hours of beauty rest, I'll get mine."

"Really, Gunn, I at least have a *regular* sleep pattern."

"Right, forty winks right up until the pager goes off."

"Maybe thirty."

Gunn had snorted. "Maybe *twelve*. Ease up, Wes. I do what works. Just like you. Sadly for you, the bags show up *damned* clear on your pasty face."

"I would hardly call it *pasty*."

"Angel's got a better tan."

"It's all that blood."

"Swing by the butcher's next time we're out. We'll get you a tub. My treat."

And comes out of the memory happily repulsed. Repulsively happy? Giddiness was always something to watch for after a battle.

Gunn wakes as soon as they pull into the garage, eyes wide open instantly, scanning for danger instinctively before relaxing into a slouch as Wesley parks.

Wincing at the pain.

Well, that was only to be expected.

Comfort in being allowed to help the man out of the truck, a twinge at not being able to find an excuse to slip an arm around his back as they walk up to the lobby.

Empty of life, but someone -- probably Angel -- has left the First Aid kit on the makeshift coffee table, as well as extra bandages, the suture kit, two bowls of water and damp cloth. Wesley wonders if this is all part of the man's often painful efforts to gain back their trust, or if the rituals of medical attention are simply ingrained by now.

Even vampires can't always count on the blood of the Sire.

Wesley helps with Gunn's ruined jacket and shirt, taking his time where blood has tacked fabric to flesh. This close, the scent of blood almost overwhelms every other. Almost.

There is clean sweat, the hint of cologne. Dark and leanly muscled flesh. Very close. Closer each time Gunn inhales.

"Do you ever think about how *fucked* up it is that we know all this shit?"

"It's only practical."

"Snap out of it, English, ain't no one else around." Smile in Gunn's voice.

"Alright, yes, it *is* exceedingly fucked up."

A snicker. "I never get enough of listening to you curse. Come on, say fuck again."

"I think I'm not the only one who requires a vat of blood, *Charles*."

"You sayin' I'm punchy?"

"No, I'm saying you're *fucking* punchy."

The last few scraps of fabric come away with that nasty, quiet ripping sound Wesley has come to know and hate as Gunn chuckles. Wesley winces for both of them and stands straight again.

"Right, time to sit down."

"I thought we were goin' to be all manly about this."

"Hmm. Well, I suppose I could grunt."

"And curse."

"Without a doubt." Wesley works up his best grunt. "Sit *down*."

"Sir, yes, sir!"

Ah, Gunn. Wesley could always count on the man to provide any amount of material for inappropriate fantasies. Though he thinks that, at best, he would look faintly ridiculous in any sort of uniform. Didn't the one with the glasses always die horribly in the second battle, anyway?

Wesley cleans the wound slowly and thoroughly. It begins bleeding again as he works, but only a slight ooze. Gunn is staring off into the distance with a slight smile, and yes, these little mendings are second nature to him now. No reason, no ability to focus on the actions.

Mind firmly in the gutter. There is no doubt, he is physically attracted to Gunn. There have been dreams, there have been fantasies that led inevitably to the flesh. A weakness in him, to be sure. Unable to accept the simple affection and comfort of Gunn's easy friendship without... twisting it.

Only... it would be easier if it were simple lust, something dark and needful without attachment, or perhaps to the side of attachment, but Wesley cannot deceive himself well enough to believe that. The fact is, he never looked at Gunn this way until they began growing closer.

Losing Angel to his Sire had only been the last step. The growth of physical contact between them, fighting back to back and annoying the life out of Cordelia by just... being friends.

Being close. Wesley wants Gunn, very badly. Enough to make the incidental contact of healing its own torture. Enough to make it hard not to hold the man's eyes when they smile at each other. Undoubtedly, it has become obvious.

If not as obvious as his previous blind worship of Angel, then certainly clear enough to anyone who looked. Every room is too large for Wesley now, save when he is at Gunn's side.

Certainly more than faintly ridiculous. There are any number of friendships that survive, *thrive* on the lack of sex, whether or not he's ever had one. It would be best to continue as he is, burying the attraction under endless theory and long-winded contemplation.

"Gunn."

Instead of a simple 'yes,' Gunn turns to face him, and they are nearly nose to nose and Wesley... it's just that Gunn's mouth it's the richest, most generous temptation he's ever seen.

"What's up?" Gunn has no problem focusing on Wesley's eyes.

"It's just. I. I wonder. Sometimes."

He manages to turn slowly away from the pull of Gunn's face, back to the work at hand. A surprise to find the needle and thread already in his hand. "Gettin' philosophical on me?"

"Perhaps carnal." Hissing as he bites his lip, as his mind screams at him, as the needle sinks into flesh and *Gunn* hisses and. He can smell his own desire.

Gunn's hand clutching Wesley's side, beneath his arm. Long, strong fingers splayed over his ribs.

"OK, Wes? Next time, lidocaine *first*."

Conflicting urges to tease and apologize, somewhere between smugly, gently mean-spirited and deeply ashamed and always, at base, the desire. "My apologies. I was. I was distracted."

"By what?" And it could've been pain lowering Gunn's voice to that rasp. It could have been.

Honesty more important than anything else here. A kind of freedom in confession, perhaps another glimpse into Angel's helplessly Catholic soul. "Your body. You."

The soft stretch of skin as the thread pulls through, and Gunn's grip on him tightens, shifts almost enough to make Wesley jerk.

"You saying you want me, English?"

"More than that."

"I... thought so, goddamnit I thought you said *two* stitches --"

"Maybe six I want to kiss you."

All in one breath, and yet still braver than he would have thought two years ago to hear himself. Because in spite of the rush of the words, his tone is remarkably stable. Clinical, even. He stitches carefully while the aftermath of the words hangs between them. Careful and clean. Not difficult medicine -- he knew how to do this by the time he entered Watcher training. The family trade, and it encourages as many secret, functional skills as espionage or serial murder.

He remembers the preciousness of that first privacy of university. The Edwardian architecture and the coolness of all the buildings such a contrast from the close darkness and magic of the family home. The distance was all he wanted, at first. And afterward there was the cool, pooling desire that led him off campus and into the industrial wastes at the city's edge. First kisses there, first gropes. The understanding of the male body as a warmth against his bared belly in the damp of the night.

Sometime after that, the single, aching kiss under the college arch with a boy from Christchurch. Almost unknown and almost unbearably desirable, hands scraping under one another's sweaters. And then the space between them in the halls, as though they'd never met, as though what they'd done hadn't been done by a thousand other children of the urban aristocracy.

Quite different than this. He's never embedded himself in the sexual life of America. Something so intensely foreign about the openness of it that he withdrew into himself completely as soon as he arrived.

No kiss in his life quite like the one he leans in and takes now. Knowledge of one another as tangible people, as adults, and eyes open between them.

Tilts Gunn's head back with his palm and opens his mouth at the first contact. Open and tender as the anonymity of his sex life has ever taught him to be. Long minute where he's the only one moving. Gunn's mouth under his is gently open, but not responding. Dark eyes watching him from a distance of two inches. Curious and watchful, opening a little wider when Wesley trails fingers up from his navel across his bared chest. Collecting the chilled dampness of pain-sweat and making a print of it on Gunn's breastbone.

There's a tiny stroke of a tongue against his own. First welcome, and his cue to end this. Wesley pulls back, holds the kiss at the meeting of their lips for a moment, then straightens.

"I think these stitches will hold as long as you don't put any undue strain on them for a few days."

Gunn's fingers close around the base of his skull and pull him back down. Kisses him properly, tangling their mouths for long minutes with all eyes closed. Tiny flinch as Wesley's glasses brush Gunn's cheek, but Gunn doesn't release him for ten more breaths.

After which Wesley collects his glasses from where they're askew on his nose and sits. Pulls his shirt out of his pants and uses the tails to polish his smudged lens.

"I suppose I deserved that."

Gunn sighs and sits up carefully. Obvious ache in his shoulder. He keeps the arm pulled in tight against his body, the hand covering his abdomen while he looks at Wesley.

"Only if you're gonna tease me. Want to tell me what that was?"

"I was."

"You were wondering."

"Yes."

Gunn gets up and comes to crouch in front of him. Intensely... something, controlled and focused on Wesley's own expression.

"This about sex, English?"

Easier to gather himself than it used to be, and Wesley isn't sure if that's a good thing or not, at least in terms of matters of the heart. Sure enough what it means that it, and really, everything else is so much easier with Gunn with him, with Gunn's eyes on him, even dark and questioning. A very important question, indeed.

"Only. Only in part."

Slow nod, and Gunn closes his eyes, gently rotates the shoulder, shaking his head.

"Are the stitches too tight?"

Smirk. "You just want another excuse to touch my body."

"It's a beautiful body, for a beaut --"

Stopped by a hand on his cheek. "You don't have to seduce me, Wes."

"What if I want to?"

"Kiss me again."

And he does, slipping an arm around Gunn's waist and pulling him close, trapping his other hand between them, pressed flat to Gunn's chest, warm, incredibly warm under the sweat. Gunn's lips are softly insistent, something Wes almost understands as female, and his stubble is sparse. A memory, Gunn half-drunk and jokingly posturing for Cordelia and himself.

"I'm a *Black* man," chest thump, followed by an exaggerated hip hop pose.

It would be easy to be frightened away by this and all their differences, but it would still be impossible to run away. There was no point to it. Not with the sweet slide of Gunn's tongue against his own, and the heat between them. A shorter kiss than the last, but neither of them is trying to prove a point this time. Breaking the kiss with a suck to Gunn's lower lip, slow and just a little hard, and moments to simply stare at each other.

Take each other in, and the determined shift the world seems to have made, and Gunn breaks it with a laugh.

"I am *not* making love to you in the Demonic Hilton."

"Are you sure you can even get up?"

Gunn makes a determined face and pulls himself up to his feet. Sways for a moment before steadying. The shirt in his hands is ruined. Even putting it on again would be a horrific experience, and he looks as if he'd rather see it burned.

Wesley watches him for a moment, then unbuttons his oxford-blue and pulls it off, hands it to Gunn. A little oversized on his own frame, which means that it strains to cover Gunn's shoulders, and the cuffs stay unbuttoned, but it's accepted without complaint. Wesley stands in his undershirt and watches, arms wrapped across his stomach. His whole body feels obvious under this too-thin cotton layer.

Gunn leans in and brushes his lips. Hard darkness of his chest through the shirt's open V.

And he comes. Outside and through Los Angeles in the American openness of Gunn's truck, to Wesley's flat. Up the stairs in spite of the fact that the lift is working, because they, at least, are familiar. The hand in the small of his back while he climbs. The pause on the landing while Gunn tangles around him and nuzzles his ear. Holds him. Not groping or grinding but simply touching him. Delighted in some previously unknown way.

Kissing at the door. Wesley, somehow, the aggressor. Pinning the larger man back against the wall and kissing as deeply as he can. One hand resting beside Gunn's skull, the other unlocking the door.

And inside, where he doesn't think Gunn has been, before. He looks startled and out of place in the midst of this starkness. And it makes Wesley wonder how this place, of all the parts of him, must appear from the outside. Decorated with the simplicity of his college room at Oxford, with only the books and scattered objects of his occasional ventures into wizarding added. Cold tea in a mug on the table. The tight-pulled blankets on his bed are clearly visible even from the hall.

In the midst of this, Gunn is. Himself. In spite of the ridiculously well-pressed oxford-cloth stretching across his shoulders. The obvious ache in his shoulder less immediate than his curiosity.

Wesley shrugs out of his coat and shoes, pads after Gunn in thin shirt and stocking feet. Pauses in the doorway of the kitchen, aware of Gunn's eyes on his back. And though he doesn't *have* to. He wants to. Peels the undershirt off in a long stretch of arm and rib, drops it over the back of a chair and vanishes.

Kitchen like his aunts had. Quiet and in spite of the modernity of the rest of the flat, quite primitive. Jars in the corners, quietly labelled. Enamel and glass. Its own kind of magic, still in force though he seldom cooks. Heats water over the small electric coil of the stove's burner and heats the pot. Gathers a half-dozen dried leaves and pools them in the tea ball, steeps the mass into a single, oddly masculine smell. Dark lurk of it at the back of one's sinuses. Like a cigarette and a kiss, once sugar's added.

He turns and offers the mug to Gunn, refusing to startle at the man's sudden closeness. Nor at the cool-warm hand that comes to rest on his ribs, just above the waist of his trousers.

Gunn sniffs at the tea. "What *is* this?"

"It will make you feel better." Some other time for lessons in the home magic that his childhood instilled in him. At the experience of each object in a house enchanted.

Gunn sips experimentally, then swallows more deeply. Kisses Wesley with the last still-steaming drops in his mouth and passes them over. Cup down somewhere behind him and then held, hips against the counter, against Gunn, surrounded by the warmth of the stove and of humid air.

The shirt between them is both barrier and welcome. Wesley's clothing on Gunn's body, with the added seduction of the shirt's primness without accompanying underclothes. Something so vaguely improper about that. Edge of leather around them both.

"Wes."

"Mmm hmmm."

Neither of them questions. Some kind of assertion, though. Of shared. Something. Adulthood, perhaps. Wanting or needing more than adolescent gropings. More than the half-generation of anonymity which has been Wesley's life to this point. He imagines making love to this man, in bed, premeditatedly.

"How bad is the wound?"

Almost capitalized in Gunn's voice, as it would be. The bullet he took for this man. "A little stiff, but all right. Perhaps we could limit the... acrobatics." Smiling against Gunn's cheek.

"Now I just wanna see you naked on a trapeze."

"Pervert. Besides, everything would be... flopping."

"You think the family jewels are everything?"

"At times..."

Low chuckle against Wesley's neck and Gunn's hand is slipping between them, down to cup Wesley's erection through his equally well-pressed, if stained, trousers.

Warm hand and welcoming. Wesley thrusts against as slowly and gently as he can manage.

"What do you want, English? Tell me."

"The two of us, naked, on my bed."

Squeeze that makes Wesley gasp. "What else?"

Bravery leaving him in a rush of doubts. Gunn's experience, Gunn's self-aware adherence to masculinity... Gunn's *age*. "I... I... what do you want?"

"Nuh uh. You started this. I wanna hear you say it."

"I... that is, do you..."

Closer now, Gunn squeezing rhythmically, other hand slipping around to cup Wesley's ass, tease at it. Gunn shifting to face Wesley's ear, breathe soft and humid on it, lick at the shell. "Do I what?"

So much easier to just sink to his knees right here, suck him fast and furiously, *end* this -- wholly unwitting, he's sure -- humiliation. But it wouldn't be what he needs. What does Gunn need? "Do you fuck?"

And Gunn moans, almost jerking Wesley through the trousers before moving in close enough to thrust against him. Something *wild* in it, terribly free and physical at the feel of Gunn's erection against his own.

"Yeah, Wes. Yeah, I do. Which way you want it this time?"

Easy assumption that this is merely... the first, and Wesley wants to be generous, gracious in his gratitude for this gift, but oh, God, the *hunger*. Catches himself ducking in to suck and bite at Gunn's throat, moving to press his middle finger between the covered cleft of Gunn's ass and... caress.

"How long you been thinking about fucking me, English?"

Startling, somehow, as if everything hadn't merely been leading up to this moment. "I haven't been," and the sound of his own voice makes him just that much harder. The worst of narcissism, but oh, to be *carnal*. In the moment and helpless to the wants of his own body --

"Bullshit."

Briefly snaps Wesley out of it. "Well, I wouldn't call it *thinking* --"

"All I wanna do when you get prissy is slide my cock between your thighs and --"

Breaks it with a kiss, nothing to do but *devour* Gunn now amidst the flood of images, bent over his desk, pants around his knees and Gunn doing everything *but* fucking him. Vaguely Greco-Roman in its perversity. To be willingly abused and molested around those whose respect he craves and Gunn's hands are all over him.

Shaping and molding the muscles of Wesley's back, short nails scraping here and there, fingertips slipping under the waistband of his trousers and Wesley's own hand the only secure part of him, steady in the torture of Gunn's cleft as the rest of him writhes and bucks.

An entirely new sort of kitchen magic, and how could he possibly merely sit down and *eat* here? Thrusting his tongue into Gunn's mouth again and again, needing to feed him, *fill* him, and suddenly remembering his own fully functional legs.

Backs them both into the bedroom, kissing and helplessly whispering a mish mash nonsense of soothing and hunger. Opening his eyes to see Gunn's, heavy lidded and blacker than he's ever seen, bucking to the rhythm of his finger.

Ungraceful tangle of two bruised men as they fall onto the bed, scrambling to get up into something resembling a comfortable position. Gunn flinches as Wes' elbow catches him in the shoulder, and Wesley finds himself whispering the breathy half-apologies that sound nothing like his usual. Something between the places he's been. Play and sex, two different things, only one of them done with a friend. Nothing like this friend, with a thigh down between his, rubbing up and grinding against him. Sudden moment of biting.

He's aware, frighteningly, of the fragility of all of this. That if this turns into something wrong, he'll lose not only Gunn's friendship, but the world all around him. Lose Cordelia and Angel and Gunn, all in one blow.

A trembling kind of pressure in his next kiss. Some awareness of it that Gunn catches. And pulls back, stares down at him. Whispers, "You can't get it wrong, English. It's cool."

Kisses him again, shallowly, paying attention to his lips and the shape of his teeth. And when Gunn lets himself down onto the bed, half on and half beside Wesley, Wes buries his head in that rounded, damaged shoulder, and hides.

This, at least, is familiar. A tangle of bodies that doesn't easily release. His arms around his partner's neck, his body and the other one grinding together with an almost childish want. Aching and dressed, and he could as easily be in a school uniform, tie off and shirttails loose, as in his own clothes.

Wesley hooks his knee behind Gunn's to pin him down. Not sure when exactly he surrendered control, and disturbing in that Gunn doesn't seem to have taken it. Just gone, at loose ends and struggling towards consummation. Tenderly for all the muddle of it. Clothes loose and hands inside his trousers. On his skin, even. Rubbing the soft skin beneath the hair and making him whimper. His own hands sliding into Gunn's trousers from behind to cup the flesh that's offered.

He can do this, this is his -- for the night -- and his touch is desired. Gunn's eyes on him, heavy-lidded with nothing like sleep, cock lifting from hastily pushed aside shorts.

Something about the clothes.

Something.

Something like, too much like everything else, *too* much like the schoolboy who did anything, offered everything, for only the hint of privacy and the necessity of touch. Surely he's grown?

Backs away enough to finally rid himself of the rest of his clothes, toeing his shoes off, embarrassed for no good reason at the homey thump they make on the floor.

Gunn waits, watches. So *calm*, as though this is something familiar. Offering himself to Wesley. For Wesley, and, perhaps, himself. Easier still to believe in charity over desire, but only until Gunn takes him in with his eyes.

Hungry, and stroking himself in that same lazy mood that makes Wesley's tongue curl against the roof of his mouth, makes him want to press his groin ruthlessly against something chill and unforgiving, something, anything to *hide*.

Abortive attempt to cover himself with arms and hands that becomes something entirely different under Gunn's steady gaze. Wesley breathes deep, dust and chill and *their* scent, already twined together in the air. Beautifully inevitable, and when Gunn's gaze tracks over Wesley's chest, Wesley's hands follow.

Over shoulder, throat and face. Arm and thigh. Gunn up on his side now, and the game is deliberate. The more focused the stare, the longer it lingers, the harder Wesley has to press, the more he has to do. Twisting his own nipples has never been especially arousing to him, and the physicality of it remains bland, but... it means so much more. So much better when Gunn licks his lips, squeezes his own cock.

Breathes out his name, which Wesley can only respond to with a gasp as Gunn's gaze finally, *finally* lights on Wesley's cock, and he can touch himself there.

If he wants to. The pull of it is almost irresistible. Almost. The urge to feel Gunn's skin against his own, to wrap that dark hand around his own cock is much, much stronger, and Wes half pounces --

"Hey, I thought we said no acrobatics!" Low, happy Gunn laugh to pull into his own mouth. Banter would be pleasing, but Wesley has no will for it now. The only importance is in divesting Gunn of the rest of his clothes and finally, yes, skin to skin, hands twined together much too tightly and *moving*.

Gunn doesn't whisper, the words themselves... too urgently, perfectly carnal to be considered aloud. Spoken roughly against his cheek, beautiful mouth brushing over and over his stubble. Gunn's tongue in his ear, long, strong leg pinning his own.

Wes moves with it, struggles and fights for the contact. So much easier, faster, if his hands were free to hold on to Gunn's hips, hold them just right there, but as it is... A battle. Not for dominance so much as pleasure, and the liquid twists of Gunn's hips remains a mystery. His own merely want to grind and thrust.

"Are you teasing me?"

Bite to his earlobe. "Wes... you want me to?"

"No. Fuck, yes --"

"Yeah, get dirty, English, let go --"

Rips his hands free and pushes Gunn over and sliding into position is almost mockingly easy. Too good for such a simple move and Gunn's arms remain splayed and Wesley's whole body aches to be touched, probed, tested and perhaps found wanting in a million tiny ways. Enough to be shaped, enough to keep Gunn coming back for.

More.

Wesley surrenders to the sweat and pleasure of it and lowers himself down, chest to chest again. So much heat and the friction of not quite enough fluid. Not quite enough not quite -- slides back from the wonder of their groins together and closes his teeth around a dark nipple. Soft, then harder as Gunn's fingers find their way into his hair and hold *on*.

Suddenly clear -- *this* is why Gunn had him touch himself that way, this is what Gunn knows well, this pleasure, these tiny sensitive nipples that demand Wesley's attentions. No words now, nothing beyond gasps and tiny moans, the insistence of Gunn's cock against his hip.

The salt goes quickly under Wesley's attentions, leaving the whispery taste of flesh, the rough texture of capillaries filling with blood. Wesley turns them on their sides again, wraps an arm around Gunn's back and focuses on the left nipple, slightly smaller than the other, slightly darker in color. Imagines himself in profile, eyes closed, nuzzling hot skin here, sucking there.

Suckling him to Gunn's groans, the beat of his own heart. Letting himself explore the curves and angles of muscle and bone. Something in him swells, burns, releases. Desperation and want far beyond anything as prosaic as need. This is more than just their bodies, and the fear of loss makes him rough, pulling Gunn closer, pushing him over on his back again to get to the other nipple. Licking broad lunatic patterns over chest and throat as Gunn arches for him, tries to hold his head in place.

"You taste very good, Gunn..."

"Then eat me." Hoarse, husky whisper of a growl that makes something in Wesley burst open.

"Oh God, Gunn -- I *want* you --"

"Take it Wes, all yours, I swear --"

Almost scuttling down into the spare generosity of lap, Gunn's gently curving cock rising to bump Wesley's chin, scrape wonderfully over his stubble for a mindless, moaning time until Wesley can no longer keep from swallowing the man. Spread his thighs wider to cup the tightening sac, tug the crisp black hair surrounding everything. Thick here, as if to make up for the relative hairlessness everywhere else.

Flashing memory, the man's nipples had been as hairless as a woman's, has to reach both hands up to scrape and tug at them, forcing his head down farther on Gunn's cock. Difficult to breathe, perfect to be like this, held so close, *adored* like this as Gunn pumps up and up so helplessly.

He wants to do this again and again, wants to be on his knees to this strong, strange man that wants him like this. Needs him like this and when he can't hold back any longer, he brings his hands back down to Gunn's hips and *pulls*. Breathes harshly through his nose, drools like an amateur all over testicles and beyond and *demands* to have his mouth fucked.

Gunn, obliging as with anything, everything else. Hands on Wesley's head, holding him still as he works his cock deep into Wesley's throat. Load, grating gasps and low moans. Curses and pleas and Wesley wants to *see* this, watch Gunn's face in this extremis but opening his eyes is unthinkable. Some Orphean crime too risky to chance. Mouth so full, thoughts fuzzing in and out of coherency, humping the edge of the mattress and offering his own noise: muffled groans and the wet sounds.

Ridiculous slurp and slap of it, balls against his chin, stubble against pubic hair and he's hyperventilating and he can't stop, *won't*, so good, so much better than anything he'd forced his fantasies to be glossed over. No favor this, simply the offering of lust for lust, complementary and electrifying.

Wesley doesn't even register the change at first, being pushed simply another sensation, something to struggle against to get more of Gunn's cock, more of his incredible fuck, but the words finally do sink in.

"*Christ*, Wes, no, you gotta stop, please stop oh *fuck* so damned good beautiful mouth no don't make me come --"

Something like a whine escaping around the cock in his throat, *squeezing* his eyes shut, too much to be denied this now but he lets his head be pulled back, tries to speak his *want* through eyes that feel glazed, tearful even. Licking his lips and Gunn's hands are the direct messengers of his gaze. Soothing, complimentary, needful.

"Fuck me."

Shuddering, nodding. Trying to think again. Side table, second drawer. Tube, condom, shaking hands, shaking body as Gunn slides the condom on, spreads his legs. Holds his knees up to his chest like any. Like a good whore. Like Wesley had been trained to do, to expose...

Dumping lubricant all over Gunn's groin, massaging it in, stroking Gunn's cock in a haze of physical imperative. He could be 15 again, but for the fact that he hasn't simply shot all over the man yet. Lean and incredibly beautiful. Soft, broad lips mauled, muscle under dark skin in motion due to *himself*. Slipping inside like something of the sacrament left for him to find.

A measure of grace in penetration, in preparing Gunn to take him in, accept him. So *warm* inside, tight and slick. Iron in his mouth, he's bitten his lip and the realization brings back all of the desperation he's been hiding from himself.

Listens to himself in something like fascinated horror as he begs Gunn to be ready, ready for him as he position's the man's legs. Positions himself. No need to guide himself, no hesitation possible as he finally pushes inside, hand fisted around Gunn's cock, stroking mercilessly.

He *will* stay hard, he *will* come for Wesley. On him, in him, somehow. Mark me, he wants to beg, and slips out nearly all the way before slamming back inside. Tries to do it again, searches himself for some level of finesse, but can find only this steady fuck. Dishonestly controlled, his body is only moving on autopilot, hands raking and kneading at Gunn's pectorals, pressing down at the hollow of throat, fingers pushed deep within that mouth, fucking with no rhythm whatsoever.

It feels like music, the way Gunn moves under Wesley, the way he tightens around him and thrusts back on him, the wet cries around his fingers. The little bites and hard sucks. There must be pain, Wesley wasn't as careful as he could be, but Gunn only accepts it, and him, cock leaking all over Wesley's hands, body in forced motion.

Release coming quickly, the sight urging Wesley toward completion and so he turns his head away, mouths at Gunn's ankle and calf, tries and fails to slow, gentle his thrusts.

Gunn's hand joining Wesley's on his cock, guiding and stroking, urging a more brutal pace... it only lasts for moments before Gunn comes all over Wesley's chest and belly. The slick burn of it on his skin makes him bite down, makes him lose all shreds of control until he's pumping rapidly, raggedly, coming with a hoarse cry and collapsing on Gunn, sliding them together, whimpering at the feel of Gunn squeezing and squeezing his oversensitized cock.

Awkwardly positioned for an awkward kiss that Wes has to sob into, that Gunn has to hold him tightly for as Wes grasps the sheets in his fists and *pulls*.

"*Gunn* --"

"Shhh, yeah... *fuck*..."

Gunn kisses him again. Not even on the mouth, just at his hairline. Wet and friendly. Eases the armlock into a more comfortably hug and settles Wes in against him.

"You good, English."

"Yes. Yes, I --" Pulls back and stares at the cracked grin. "Bastard!"

Gunn laughs. "kay, won't tease you." More softly, "Fuck, you're gorgeous."

"How's the shoulder."

"S'good." He settles back a little more carefully against the pillows, eases Wesley's arm down around his ribs instead. Obvious enough that he's got to be lying about the pain, but it's so obviously not a rejection that Wesley can't bring himself to complain.

Settling there, together, both wakeful in a way that makes Wesley fear awkwardness, but Gunn doesn't seem to need words here, and Wesley can be silent. Languid touches now, sighs and the mild creak of the bed. The abrupt realization that this is the first lover Wesley's ever had in this bed, and it begs significance.

Gunn doesn't seem to need to build reassurances of his own manhood, Gunn had implied they would do this again. Gunn's hand covers Wesley's own, almost holding Wesley's hand against him. Kissing what flesh he can reach seems only necessary, and will say everything Wesley needs to.

All of the yes, more, and anything Gunn needs to know about him. The desire waiting to uncoil itself again.

Stops with his mouth pressed gently against Gunn's chest, and listens to their breathing lengthen and slow.


End

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