Title: Words (Improv #8)
Author: Criss Moody
Email: wyoluvr@yahoo.com
Website: http://www.crosswinds.net/~wyoluvr/CrissFic
Date: January 22nd, 2001
Disclaimer: I honestly don't own these guys. Wesley may use my shower gel, but he's just borrowing it, I swear. Er...Joss Whedon owns them. He made them. I just made the story.
Distribution: My site, list archives, and now that Criss has shaken off the alien influence, just about anyone who asks. If you're on a Wesley or Gunn slash or slash friendly list, you can forward it there IF you ask first.
Summary: Wesley gets some...sorry, tried for a better summary, couldn't think of one.
Pairing: Wesley/Gunn
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Dedicated to Te for beautiful, awe-inspiring Wesley/Gunn. Not betaed. Written for BuffyAngelImprov #8 (glow -- rain -- bound -- crave).
Feedback: Feed me please. Or tell another author that you love them today and we'll call it even.

Words, by c.moody.


In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God, Amen.

Understand that. Comprehend that words have an awesome power entirely their own, apart from the speaker's intent, far removed from what people want them to mean.

In the old days, words had more power than God, or gods, Allah or Muhammad, Jesus or Zeus. Word leant their power to those godlings, those little desert and plains gods, mythical in fact and deed. They heard all and saw all and there was no escaping them. Indeed, it was vicious circle of verbal babysitting. I pray to God, my words give God flesh, and thus God is flesh. Because I believe, it is true.

I've been denying the words from Angel's lips for weeks now. Ignore, deny, and they'll vanish. The moment I weaken, the instant I begin to accept, the words will bind me. Childish, to believe that ignoring something could make it go away. Perhaps I am a child then, ruled by a child's need to be safe, to be loved, and to trust.

In any case, tonight, beneath the fiery glow of the Emergency room sign, I silently admit my failure. Despite my best efforts, I admitted the truth of Angel's words and they have taken a firm hold on reality, never to return to the ether from which they came. In battle, as I ducked beneath the sharp scythe of one in the multitude of demons housed in L.A., a split second realization that if Angel had been present, the battle would have finished long ago lead to the thought that Angel had chosen his own battle. He had broken from his fight for redemption, the chance to live and die held out as temptation. Obsessions never work out well, but Angel had gone down that road. And I saw that, I admitted that, I gave the words flesh. A heartbeat later, the demon bellowed out in his death throes, our victory colored by our aching, too-human bodies. I barely knew that only Gunn and I still stood.

My hand shakes as I lift my cigarette, solicited from a kind gentleman waiting for his wife, a doctor in the ER. As the sharp, acrid smoke fills my lungs, I hold it in, vainly hoping that it will ease the achy craving for something else deep in my gut. The swish of the automatic sliding doors beside my body startle me, the glowing stick of paper and tobacco clutched between my fingers slips, and I let it go before it burns me.

"Yo. Cordy's out. Doc says she just got a hard bump on her head, and her right shoulder was outta place. He popped it back in and put it in a sling." Gunn kept the doors from closing with one hand while he stood there, waiting for me to move, to go back into the hospital. I nod, shuffle my way in, and pray. For what, or to what, I don't really know.


Cordelia looks surprisingly good for someone who's popped both shoulders out of place in the last two weeks, had 2 concussions, and sprained her ankle. She refuses our offers to stay, to help her move around the apartment, saying that she has a ghost who can wake her up every hour and get things for her. She hardly needs two more worried males prowling around her. I supposed she does have a point. After she closes the door behind her, leaving Gunn and I to deal with being shut out of taking care of her, I lean against the wall, relishing the cool stone, feeling the little bumps scrape against my cheek. So real, so mundane.

"Your place?" It takes me too long to realize it's a question. I stare stupidly at Gunn's face, seeing concern stretched over his handsome African features. Odd to think that he'd worry about me. I'm not entirely sure he even likes me. Or approves of me, or what have you. We come at the same problem with different abilities, and too frequently we find testosterone getting in the way of seeing how our special skills compliment each other.

"Er, yes, well, I'm not..." My voice trails off. I'm really not sure what he's saying. A shadow, reminiscent of the one in Angel's eyes, lurks in Gunn's brown irises.

"You want a ride to your place or you wanna crash at my crib?" Again, I'm temporarily baffled by Gunn's words. In times past, we have split up after a battle, without words, going back to our own private spaces. As a rule, Angel Investigations does not intrude upon its employees' private residences. Rules, evidently, truly are made to be broken.

I stand silent, unable to find the speech to say yes or no or what the bloody hell do you mean? Gunn snorts, pushes at my shoulder, and mutely I allow him to nudge me down the stairs and into his idling truck.

Barely an half-hour later, we're at the door to Gunn's 'crib,' a surely inadequate word for what turns out to be a roomy, but sparsely decorated flat. He tosses his keys into a small ceramic bowl on a plain wooden table just inside the door before advancing into the apartment. I follow, taking in the room, reading it for what it could tell me about the man who inhabits these walls. The walls are bare, not an art print or photograph in sight. The bare bulb overhead stays off, in favor of several standing lamps placed throughout the open spaces of the apartment. It's one large room, the kitchen separated by a breakfast bar. It's quite warm, and I find myself shivering after the cool night air. Once, I believed that California was a land of perpetual sunshine and warmth. I was obviously wrong.

I wait by the small table, watching Gunn strip off his outer layers, tossing them into a corner. For all his evident disregard for his clothing, the apartment is neat, nothing untoward left out or the expected mess of a young man living alone. My own flat is far messier than this, a result of my inability to research AND clean up after myself. He turns to me, his face a study in nothing. A sudden desperate need to be elsewhere fills me, until he advances. In the 25 footsteps that it takes Gunn to cross the space between us, I make a decision. I utter the words in my head, to give them flesh, to let them live.

I want him. I want this, whatever it is. For once, I want to forget about a redemption that is not mine and a man-like creature who sees only what he wants to see.

Gunn interlaces our fingers, tightly as if to tell me I won't get away, won't escape into ignorance. Our arms fold back behind my body as he pushes into me, thrusting our frames flush against each other. His eyes drift up from my collarbone and my skin tingles, a extrasensory warning that someone is eyeing me, wanting me. A brief warning glance -- don't move, don't breathe, stay right there -- and we kiss, lips brushing dry, wet in places, noses bumping as they invariably do.

Gunn tastes metallic, tangy and sharp like licking something, well, metal. I wonder what I taste like, the cigarette I smoked so recently, or something else I never notice because it's in me. My legs bump against something hard, and I realize that Gunn has been steadily nudging me backwards. He stops the kiss, and I whimper without thinking. A smirk, and he pushes me down onto the bed. Standing between my legs, he finishes removing his clothing, leaving it at the foot of the bed. I gasp, the humid feel of his breath against my upper thigh nearly erasing coherent thought from my mind. So good, warm and just the right amount of pressure on that spot, one of my erogenous zones. His nose nudges my cock, rubbing my pants and boxer against the tensile flesh. His open mouth consumes my me, suckling at the hardness through the layers of cloth. He creeps up my body, tickling my stomach with soft kisses interspersed with nips hard enough to make me arch into them. As his hands busy themselves with my pants, I feel shame for lying there like so much inanimate matter, doing nothing but taking. My hands join his and push my pants and boxers down to my ankles, where my legs finish removing them. Naked, smooth skin meeting smooth skin, we face each other in honest silence, Gunn's body lying on top of mine as comfortably as if it had been born there.

We meet in the inches between us, moist and heavy from our breathing. As if we had eons, we kiss, mapping the miniscule valleys and crevices of our mouths. Gunn's kisses are like a fine poison, so sweet that I almost miss the sharpness in them. Not dangerous, like Angel's might be, and yes, I have wondered more than once what it would be like to kiss that vampire, rather Gunn's kisses tell me that he is a danger to people only when they threaten him or his.

That is comforting. Unless I make this more than it is, more than physical, I will not come to know harm in this bed through Gunn's hand, not if he can help it. I grasp his smooth skull, feeling the knobs, and the nicks where his razor failed to move cleanly. Almost enough to bruise, I clutch at him as he licks down my chest, anointing my nipples with tiny, devious flicks of his tongue, hardening the tender flesh to the point of agony. On fire, I try to hold his head there - asking more, there, yes, just a little harder, no, gods no, don't bite, wait, yes, please, gods yes, harder, more, there - but time and time again he evaded my hands. I don't think I could have held on to him in any case.

Each time I try to free myself from him, ease out from the welcome press of his body, he defeats me, keeps me pinned to the bed with hands and hips. I succumb, using my body as best I can to communicate my desire. I want to give, but I see he has something else in mind and for once I'm not feeling too self-sacrificing. His mouth finds my stomach, and his tongue licks a ring of fire around my belly button, and I feel a bit like a target. Here, aim right here and do Wesley in, no problem. His tongue becomes a viper, striking my navel with darts of venom, razor-like in their intensity. It's an odd feeling, to have someone's tongue licking you anywhere, let alone your navel, such a primal place. He's trying to get inside me, the real me, the Wesley Wyndham-Pryce born naked and defenseless into this world. As long as he continues to make me feel alive, I'd let him do anything, even that.

Nothing I have ever known prepares me for Gunn's mouth engulfing the head of my swollen cock, licking the head free of viscous, shiny pre-come. The expression on my face, held up by pillows at the head of the bed, must amuse Gunn because he laughs, a low rumble that reverberates through my cock and into my body. My eyes roll back, and I lose myself for awhile in the rolling echo resounding through me - Gunn, Gunn, Gunn, Gunn. His laughter fades and he settles into more serious business. Lashing the underside of my sex, he finds and takes advantage of the vein I caress when I want to come fast. He brings me to a quick point, and then just as quickly releases me. I make to protest, but his eyes halt my words. With a swift move my glazed mind can't quite see, he faces me with a bottle of what looks to be lube.

Lube. I hesitate for a second before nodding, holding my hand out for the lube. He keeps it, pops it open and slathers it on his hand. I moan and hold onto the pillows beneath me to keep from interfering. Slick, a bit heavy, but his hand moves like quicksilver on my cock. It burns, like a mad itch that has to be satisfied -now!- and a low growl escapes me. Gunn's hand falls away and I blink twice before I truly see him laying on his stomach, drawing his knees up so that though he still rested on his stomach, his knees are splayed out next to him.

Taking a hefty scoop of goop from the bottle, I abandon it to the mercies of the bedroom floor. The lube drizzles from my hand onto the ass beneath me, icing on a sweet chocolate cake. My body shudders - I've marked him. The lube oozes down his ass, sliding into him, and he feels the cold, hisses at the chill against his hot skin. My fingers dance around his entrance, one slips in, two, and like that my fingers are fucking him, making him ride the digits, his ass thrusting back, begging for more, one more, the hand, hell, the arm if it could fit. It's almost too much, I feel dizzy, but this is so good I could never stop.

My cock meets his ass, rubs into the lube, cock and ass the only part of our bodies touching. I lean over him, rubbing my tight, taut nipples against his muscled back. I reach back, guide my cock to his hole, and push. The head pops in, tight, no breath, but somehow my chest expands, again and again, so fast I almost hyperventilate. It's like being in love, drinking champagne and scotch, and jumping off of the Sears Building all at once. Slowly, as all good things take time, I continue to push in, muscles I never thought about much pushing to expel me and to take me in simultaneously, a mad dance of minute contractions on my cock. I never thought to be in something so tight and live; it wasn't possible. But somehow, I'm in Gunn, and I'm moving, he's moaning, grunting, grabbing at his cock, jerking off, and I'm dying. It lasts forever, it lasts a second, but I'm withdrawing and ramming back in, our bodies slapping, sweaty skin squeaking. Bright flashes of light radiate out from the center of my vision as I feel ribbons of come shoot into Gunn. One last thrust, one last burst, and blackness.

Later, I don't know how much, I wake up. Gunn lies sprawled on his back, spread-eagled, on arm cradling me to his chest. A quick check to the bedside table confirms the lateness of the hour. Too late to make a dignified get away, in this part of town anyway. I can stay and, if need be, have a justifiable excuse. I'm tired, and I like feeling the silken heat of Gunn beneath me, his heartbeat reminding me without fail that he is mortal. Another steady beat, from above, makes me shift my position, and I turn onto my back, looking up into a skylight. No stars, but the steady patter of rain skitters across the glass, refracting the light of the moon and moving according to it's own rules. Rules sometimes infringed upon by the works of man, but not by the words.

What has happened here tonight had nothing to do with the power of words. Gunn has said nothing to convince me to lay down with him, to kiss him, to hold and be held by him. Nothing binds us together but an unspoken need to defeat the darkness.

Within and without.

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