Chapter Text
He can’t believe his luck.
The sheer absence of it.
Especially since he went out of his way to damn near research how to set the mood (Ask Jeeves was of no help so he was forced to pivot to another more current and less defunct search engine—credit reluctantly granted to Niffty).
He scoured the checklist, for chrissakes:
1) Dimmed the lights
2) Set the mood
3) Arrived early to nitpick the flower arrangements since ikebana is an ancient, unappreciated art
4) Challenged the poorly compensated waiter to fisticuffs after being told not to tamper with the decorative pieces on the tables
5) Escaped being blacklisted by the skin of his teeth by loudly mentioning that he knew the GM (he doesn’t) and promised to escalate it to the owner (he hardly cares for Pentious, but needs must)
6) Got derisively called a ‘Karen’ by a bystander for his trouble
All that, only to be constantly punished for his prior sins.
“Hey, ain’t that Chuck’s dad?”
“Not a clue what you’re talking about! Waiter? Is this fish fresh caught? Anyway—”
“It is! Hey! You! Guy! Yeah, you! Ain’t ya Charlie’s dad?”
The asshole/fiend answers in the affirmative, and amidst Angel’s smug smile, Alastor valiantly resists the compulsion to eradicate the encroacher. His partner, dining and otherwise, surely must decline to meet and exchange futile pleasantries.
Surely.
But, because the universe is hellbent on ruining his life, the blight on humanity and another fool accompanying him lope over. As they wind past the other diners, Angel waves.
“Hey, guys! What’s goin’ o—”
The blood drains from his face.
“Oh, fuck.”
Less than halfway to their table, the man next to Lucifer does a ridiculously stupid, but ultimately impressive double-take. He skids to a halt.
“Oh, holy shit! Angel?”
Alastor turns to him. “I take it you’re acquainted?”
Angel nods. Face pinker than his hair. “From work,” he mumbles, eyes drilling holes into the tablecloth.
“Oh?” Alastor furrows his brow. Uncomprehending exactly why it bothers his partner. “Is he a client?”
Angel sinks into his seat. “Yeah,” he mutters, somewhat dismally. “Think I told ya ‘bout him before. Adam.”
The name doesn’t ring any bells, but an earlier conversation between them does. Something to the tune of Angel’s past relationships—Valentino very much included—and how jealousy was a factor leading to their demises.
Alastor cleared his throat. “Regarding what you said earlier—”
“That my exes used to rough me around?” He shrugged, as if it were of little consequence. “Yeah, lotsa guys get jealous, ‘specially in this profession. Hypocritical? Sure, ‘cause most of these dicks met me there. Lady in the streets, whore in the sheets, right?”
“Well, I tend not to get jealous. Per se. More…possessive, if I’m being truthful.”
“Ain’t that the same thing? Or, like, ballpark range?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Sounds kinda sexy.”
“In fiction, I’m sure. In real life, however…” He trails off, allowing Angel to fill in the blanks. “As sadistic as I have the potential to be, I’d rather that not for you. Hypocrisies aside, I don’t believe in punishing my partners. Doubly so because of something they can’t control.”
Angel laughed. It rang like the most festive of holidays. “This ‘cuz ya like me?”
“Yes,” he admitted. Dipping closer; tracing the hollowed jut of his collarbone. “Because I do.”
“Darling,” he says, reaching over the table. Angel starts as Alastor’s hand clasps his. “It’s fine.”
Because it is.
It is.
“Hello, Alastor,” the jester rudely interrupts. His hideous grimace preserved in the same Cheshire, canary-mouthful grin from the second he caught a glimpse of Angel. Alastor, deadset on coming out on top, ignores him.
Very maturely.
“Al,” Angel hisses, landing an undeserved sharp kick to his shin. “You’re bein’ rude.”
He studies the cocktail menu, pretending no one else but his ardent fervor for an Old Fashioned exists.
Because fuck him, and the horse he rode in on.
Whatever his name was, again.
“‘Sup, dude,” it brays. “I’m Adam.”
“Bully for you.”
“Jesus Christ, Al!”
“Don’t mind him, Adam. He’s just a spoilsport dick masquerading as a man.”
“And you’re just a pocket-sized blowhard steeped in a mid-life crisis.”
“Oh, so now you acknowledge me, you little shi—”
“This is Al,” Angel hollers. The other restaurant patrons shift uncomfortably around them. “An’ he’s pleased to meet ya, Adam.”
It’s categorically untrue, but Alastor charitably holds his tongue.
Which turns out to be the wrong decision.
“Ah, Angel! I’m afraid that with all the hubbub last time, I wasn’t quite as courteous as I ought to have been. Please,” Lucifer says, gripping Angel’s hand in his. “Allow me to formally introduce myself. Lucifer.” He dips down and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Charmed.”
Basking in the bullshit limelight, Angel flutters his lashes. “Likewise.”
Though the rational part of him is accustomed to the coquettish song and dance exuded by Angel’s on-stage persona, the larger, hulking, blood-thirsty majority of Alastor still wonders if it’s possible to slit a man’s throat with a butter knife.
“Why, aren’t you as lovely as ever! Pray tell, is anything wrong with your eyesight? Or hearing? Blink twice if he’s holding you against your will.”
With enough elbow grease and gumption, Alastor supposes anything is.
But that’s beside the point.
Before he can get a word in edgewise (and oh, what words he has for him), Lucifer spins around to face him. He guffaws. “Oh ho ho!” he exclaims smugly, hands on his hips like a diminutive, deranged Santa Claus. “I knew you were seeing him! Even before you both mentally scarred Charlie and her friends!”
In this town, rumors spread fast.
The best of them sending tongues a-wagging.
He intended it to be a soft launch of sorts. Especially since his colleagues and assorted allies had never witnessed him with anyone before. Much less a significant…entanglement, as it were. Husk, predictably, would’ve had a field day. As would Niffty. And although he hadn’t been acquainted with Charlie and Vaggie as long, he was sure it would leave quite the impression.
Of the myocardial variety.
Then, it would inevitably circle around to Lucifer, who would gloat his dumb face off until the cows came home.
A soft launch, he reiterated to himself.
Before he forgot to bolt the goddamn doors.
This meant that, despite Vaggie’s deaf-ear pleas (“Remember what your dad said, babe! About the suspicious hickeys!”), a well-meaning Charlie took it upon herself to barge through the closed doors like some sort of pitcher-shaped behemoth. The rest of the merry gang of idiots spilled inside in her destructive wake.
“You okay, Al? We tried knocking, and—oh, holy moly!”
Upside-down or not, he could still read the abject shock splashed across their faces.
Presumably absorbing the illicit tableau unfolding in front of their eyes.
Not that he could do anything at the time. As his hands were quite tied.
Literally.
To the less empathetic pairs of oculi, the sight may have been a touch unexpected: him, burying his cock as deep as he could inside Angel while the other man rode him like a determined cowboy breaking in a particularly stubborn stallion.
Or so Niffty relayed the sordid scene to him later. Cheerily chirping, “Pervert” before skipping away, leaving behind his flabbergasted face in the dust.
“Hey, guys,” Angel rasped, on the brink of matter-of-factly. As if discussing the weather.
If the weather was currently pulsing inside him with short, frustrated, furtive thrusts.
It might have been his profession, and Angel was nothing if not an abject ace at the whole exhibitionist thing, but even Alastor wasn’t aware of anyone else who could be that calm and collected under the compromising circumstances. Vox, maybe, as attested to his numerous failed television broadcasts and embarrassing snafus caught live, but it’s easy enough to fake it. At least until the idiot found himself with a knife blade embedded in the meat of his ass. Then the moron predictably squealed like a stuck pig at the end of the factory assembly line.
Which Alastor wouldn’t know anything about.
Angel’s lips parted into a fetching, breathless moan as he sank down further on Alastor’s cock.
“What’s…ah…up?”
So hard launch, it was.
Pun unintended.
As usual, word traveled on the backs of rumors. At an unprecedented breakneck speed.
By the time Carmilla—of all people—texted him, he just about had enough. So Alastor did what he must: he threw in the towel, silenced his phone, and chucked it in the nearest pile of folded clothes.
Zestial no doubt played a small part (informant, likely) in that debacle, but he himself steadfastly refused to pry (out of professionalism or indifference; Alastor will never know). Instead, he remained relatively blasé, preferring to focus on the impertinent matter at hand: their eagerly-anticipated upcoming cat calendar.
He’d no doubt that Vox texted him as well, or at least tried to. In lieu of his actual phone number, Alastor had given the moron the number of the municipal waste facility.
He congratulated himself for his ingenious foresight, especially as Angel’s phone blew up with a deluge of texts and notifications. The usual: utter disbelief, lukewarm well-wishes scattered amongst sincerer ones, and the inevitable prying questions.
But radio silence from Valentino.
Which was to be expected, of course. Currently, it would be suicide—career and otherwise—to threaten him from the vantage point from where he’d positioned himself.
Pun intended.
Lucifer, however, has no such compunctions.
“I’m sending you this month’s therapy bill,” he says, wagging his fucking finger in front of his face. “My daughter’s,” he clarifies to the oaf next to him. “Not mine. I’m perfectly well-adjusted and normal,” he lies.
“Nothin’ wrong with therapy, Lucy,” Angel chimes in.
“Yeah, don’t worry, babe. Hell, I see a shrink all the time! Lute—my best friend, you’ll meet her soon—swears up and down that it helps curb her homicidal urges.” He shrugs. “Dunno how true that is, but she hasn’t been arrested in a while.”
Angel brightens. “Aww, Al!” He pokes his arm. “See? Ya should go sometime! Sounds like you and his bestie have a lot in common.”
“I don’t need therapy,” Alastor bites out. To his eternal chagrin, Lucifer sides with him.
“Right?” He scoffs. “We definitely don’t need it!”
Angel and Adam trade looks. Rather judgmental ones, now that he squints.
“Man, their generation is so fucking misinformed.”
“Yeah, talk about draggin’ ‘em kickin’ and screamin’ into the new millennium. Maybe old dogs can’t learn new tricks.”
“I’m thirty-seven! Nowhere near Lucifer’s doddering age!”
“Fuck you! And you too, Adam! I’ve seen your driver’s license! Don’t be fooled by the goatee, everyone! He’s closer to my age than he cares to admit!”
After the windmilling and sputtering end, they finally manage to seize hold of themselves. With varying degrees, they all come to the same dawning realization. As every single patron in the restaurant gawks at their ragtag group.
The silence that descends upon them is oppressive.
“Anyway,” Lucifer says, unnecessarily drawing out the word. In an enlightening flash, Alastor immediately sees where Charlie gets it from.
The brain damage.
“What brings you two to this swanky place? Took out a loan to afford it, hmm?”
He isn’t aware, but the jab is an unintended bull’s eye to Alastor’s sore spot. Even after Lucifer had been excommunicated from his family—an open secret, considering his infamous father—he still never managed to remove the silver spoon from his mouth. It’s all chump change now to Alastor, but it wasn’t always. To say the least. He brushes it off, the brief record skip unnoticed by both Lucifer and Adam, but Angel’s hand inches across the table before settling over his.
The warmth, an unprecedented anchor.
“We’re on a date,” Angel declares. An unreadable uptick in his voice. “An’ I’m allowed to eat now.”
They spent the lazy summer afternoon draped over each other; the creaky air conditioner in Alastor’s room working overtime, spitting out glacial bursts the second the temperature climbed over its threshold. Basked in thin rays streaming from between the slats, Corinthians stretched, then yawned. Fat Nuggets, accustomed to his room over Angel’s new digs, rustled sleepily at the base of the rocking mattress as Angel swiped his tongue over Alastor’s leaking slit while his other hand played idly with his balls.
Slowly, but fervently, they worked themselves into a frenzy, bodies slick with sweat and desire gliding and winding across; around; against each other.
He fucked into Angel, slowly; methodically, thrusting against that sensitive, delightful spot until Angel squirmed and writhed and begged. Tickling his sadistic itch, Alastor leisurely withdrew, leaving him twitching and empty and whimpering for more. Glutton for punishment that he was, Angel pleaded, so prettily, for him to please, Al, put it back in, baby, please, I need to come.
“Shush, darling,” Alastor murmured, hand tangling through unkempt pink hair. His sharp teeth nipped a path down his gorgeous, exposed throat. “We’ve all the time in the world.”
And the cycle began anew. Eventually, Alastor tired of the game. He grabbed Angel by the scruff, hissed sweet nothings in his ear, and allowed him to come.
On his orders.
They share a secret, charged look before Alastor turns to face the interlopers.
“Yes,” he says, silky smooth. Fingers laced together, he squeezes Angel’s hand. “We’re on a date.”
The look of unmitigated bewilderment on Lucifer’s face would be worth it, if not for the saccharine “Aww, that’s fucking cute” line that his imbecilic companion utters immediately after.
“He is, isn’t he?” Alastor finds himself saying. Years of cultivating quick-witted, hyperbolic banter for radio, much of it as a means of transition or shock value, and he’s slightly startled at how honest he sounds. How much he actually means it. In a futile effort to salvage face, he hastily adds, “But don’t let appearances fool you. He’ll tear your throat out at the drop of a hat.”
“You don’t say.”
Alastor magnanimously ignores that last comment. “Vicious, darling thing,” he murmurs, thumb trailing down a prominent vein. “Gorgeous. And dangerous.” Angel winks in response.
“Like those poison octopuses in Australia!”
Alastor blinks. The other men all swivel, directing their attention to Adam.
Who makes no attempt to explain, but instead, elaborates.
“Yep. The ultimate crazy batshit murder-land. Not a hellscape, like, physically, ‘cause goddamn, it’s beautiful, but literally. With peril lurking at every turn. We should go there, babe. I got some points saved up.”
“Octopi,” Alastor automatically corrects, the whiplash of the conversation tilting him off-balance. A charming quirk on Angel, he finds he doesn’t have the same patience for a troglodytic stranger.
“Octopuses,” Lucifer says, apparently reveling in wrong facts. “Anyway, I can relate. Believe you me, I have quite the lengthy experience in matters of lethality and looks.”
“Yes, I too know someone that fits the description. To a tee. Besides Angel, of course.” Alastor’s smile pricks up at the corners. “The very archetype of ‘femme fatale’.”
Lucifer’s eyes slit into a suspicious slant.
“Ha ha! You know, if I didn’t know any better”—“You don’t”— “and if you weren’t seeing Angel, I may have thought you were referring to my wife!”
“Ha ha! Ex-wife. And if I weren’t with Angel, hypothetically, I’m sure you would have next to nothing to worry about!”
“Ha ha! Was that sarcasm? Because it sure didn’t sound like sarcasm!”
“Ha ha! Implication, perhaps, but I don’t expect someone with the same IQ as their stature to grasp that!”
“Ha ha! Was that a dig at my height? Because I’ll fucking kill you!”
“Ha ha! Try it, I fucking dare you! I may not be eligible for Medicare like you, but it’s a low risk I’m willing to take!”
“Ha ha!”
“Ha ha!”
And thus, battle lines are drawn.
“Is…is this a dick-measurin’ thing?” Angel whispers, not-quite-so sotto voce behind his palm.
“Probably.” Adam shrugs. “If it is, my guy’s pretty stacked in that department. I mean, for an old man. Not as impressive as mine, of course, but it’s a nice size. Similar to yours, I guess.” He elbows Angel. “So, what about bitchface? Lucy told me his dick’s probably the size of a pencil eraser, for how much their friends say he uses it.”
“Uh…” Angel hedges. “Let’s just say I ain’t complainin’.”
Adam scoffs. “Nice way to say smallest dick in the world. Cool, cool. I respect the hustle though.”
One ear on the inane conversation, Alastor regroups. He consolidates his laser focus back to one-upping Lucifer and brandishes his phone. He swipes aggressively. Then reveals the new cat water fountain he installed for Corinthians.
“Ha! Picture this and weep!”
“What the hell? It was out of stock when I tried to add it to my cart! Where did you even…goddammit! This is exactly what Mr. Crackers needs! How much do you want for it?”
“How dare you. My morality is not for sale!”
It is, for roughly triple the original price, but Alastor refuses to disclose that tidbit.
It’s much more satisfactory to see him squirm.
“Well…” Angel pantomimes something that Alastor doesn’t quite catch because the fool across from him attempts to show him pictures of his cat (appreciated, albeit reluctantly) and his new insufferable dalliance (very much unwanted and unappreciated).
“…and this was our first unofficial date,” Lucifer says to the most uninterested party to have ever lived, as Adam simultaneously shouts, “No fucking way!” With Angel adding a “Yes, fuckin’ way” immediately following it.
“RIP your ass,” Adam’s grating voice commiserates.
Almost somberly in the background.
“Eh, it’s had a good run.”
“And this is after we had our fifth and hopefully last slapfight—oh, fuck! Shit, shit, shit! Jesus, Al, oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know that was gonna be after—”
If he didn’t believe in a higher power, he does now.
“Why?”
Because the gods must fucking hate him.
Lucifer scrambles. “Please, please don’t mention this to HR, or Vaggie—she’s probably it, anyway—and especially not to Charlie because, hey, let’s be honest, she doesn’t need the additional therapy and is still kind of holding out hope for her mom and I to work out and I’m already in hot water thanks to Adam and whatever the hell he said to Niffler the other day.” He flaps his arms like a deranged bird. “Besides! It’s only something I dabble in! Angel gets it, I’m sure! It’s the feel of it, you see! It’s the silk that makes the lingeri—”
“Deer god, why?”
Alastor retches; the last meal he consumed threatening to backtrack up his gullet. He downs his drink.
Then immediately reaches for the bottle.
Which Angel snatches away. Out of blasted reach.
“Don’t,” he warns, eyes narrowing.
Alastor’s hands flail feebly in the air. “Unless you can lobotomize the last thirty seconds of my brain, then I suggest you g̶͍͇͆i̵̞͇̭͑v̷̛̳͓͙̘̾̅̀̚ě̵̛̛̥̰͋͂́ ̴͎̭͑̓̕į̸͙̲̼̣͍̾̑̃̅̈̚t̵̞̠͓̰͇̳͗͑͛ ̸̝̮͋̀̇ẗ̷̡̪͈̦ò̴̬̦̞̂̂͌͑ ̴͖̮̂̑̽̽̐m̴̯̭͉̠͗͑͂͌͌͠ͅĕ̶̟̫͂̀̓.”
“Try all ya want, babe. But that creepy voice don’t work on me.” Angel amends, “Well, maybe in bed, but not now.” He swats away Alastor’s hands. “Alcohol ain’t a crutch, Al!”
Alastor’s lip curls. “Oh, really? That’s rich, coming from the person who strong-armed me to chauffeur him to the nearest bar due to anxiety over his piglet’s routine vet visit.”
“That’s…that was a different story!”
“It always is.”
During their brief tussle over the wine bottle, the secondary vile cretin waddles over to them.
“Trouble in Dante’s paradise?” its unintelligent maw flaps as it waggles its eyebrows.
Angel’s own nicer ones knit together. “Er, so I ain’t as well-read as Radio Big Dick over here,” he says, thumbing towards him. His heel digs into Alastor’s thigh as he infuriatingly keeps him at a lithe leg’s distance. “But that doesn’t sound right.”
Arms flailing as he both curses and celebrates his partner’s anatomy, Alastor offers a more magnanimous explanation. “Have you possibly suffered a stroke?”
He yelps as a vicious kick connects with his knee. Angel plasters on an angelic smile.
The insolent brat.
“So, have ya been to the hotel yet? Charlie’s pretty proud of it, and I ain’t complainin’.” He tempers Alastor’s growl with a winsome grin. “Al’s still got his house, since he owns it, but I just broke my lease on my old place, an’ officially moved in a couple of days ago.”
“Like, together? Damn, I know lesbians who don’t even move that fast!”
“Not…technically.”
Which is accurate. Barely, perhaps, but Alastor’s an old hand at lying to himself.
“Oh, okay. Like roommates then. Who fuck. I mean, I get it. I’m over at Lucy’s place almost every night anyway. ‘Cuz fuck living at mine. Had some Susan bitch all up in my ass about the barbecues I was throwing. Something about noise pollution ordinances and blah-fucking-blah.”
Alastor stills.
Static crackles in his ears.
Time slithers to a crawl.
Angel taps his chin. “Okay, but when were ya throwin’ them, and for how long? Ragers after midnight on weeknights is pretty damn rude.”
“Huh. Is that why we hardly ever go to your house?”
“She just won’t stop riding my ass! I mean, sure, a couple of burgers might get lost on the grill after a couple of beers, but one of my buddies is a fireman so, like, whatever. Bad enough that another neighbor, this other douche geezer, also bitches about everything too. Like, yeah, I’ll quit throwing parties and pick up Emi’s shit off the public sidewalk and mow my lawn.” He chortles. “When I fucking feel like it!”
Casus belli.
Alastor twists, moving so unnervingly sinuously it would make a snake weep in envy. “What neighborhood did you say you lived in again?” Tone instantly butter smooth and sickeningly dulcet. Bordering on a hint of hysteria. Angel and Lucifer exchange panic-stricken looks.
Adam grins, blissfully unaware of the veritable parade of red flags ahead. “Some dumb one with a shitty HOA.” He rattles off the nearest coordinates, and Alastor’s smile transforms into a rictus one.
“And when were you hosting them?”
“Woah, what’s with the third degree? You a Susan in disguise?” He tosses his head back, laughing at his own tepid joke while something irredeemably unpleasant claws up Alastor’s spine. His smile freezes on his face.
“When. Were. You. Hosting. Them.”
After the, well, aftermath of a few hurled chairs, a torrent of creative insults, an aborted stabbing (“Goddammit, Al, where the fuck do these knives keep comin’ from?”), and a vicious headbutt resulting in a future black eye or two, Alastor decides that the show must go on.
Benevolently.
After a last, cheap shot to the groin, they flee. Deftly dodging the police, he ushers a disgruntled Angel to his car (“Après vous”), nerves singing from the residual violence.
“Apologies,” he says, and only marginally means it since his bloodthirst was inadequately quenched. “Let’s find somewhere else to eat.”
“You’re fine, babe. We can fill up on popcorn.” Alastor raises a brow at the rasp in his voice. A warm hand rests on his knee. Before marching up the inside of his thigh. It settles over his clothed, but thickening erection.
He swallows.
After fresh kills—and near ones—his body reacts. Involuntarily. Usually, he finishes himself off efficiently, but Angel, clever, savvy demon that he is, is quick on the uptake.
He divulged his predilection during one of their marathon sessions (Angel’s carnal appetite is insatiable, and Alastor’s bloodlust gleefully indulges him; a match made in hell), and Angel openly scoffed at his confession.
“Babe,” he said, elongating the affectionate pet name. “When we met, you were fuckin' covered in blood.” He lifted a freckled shoulder, bicep brushing against Alastor’s ribs. “I wasn’t born yesterday, ya know. ‘Sides. Ya ain’t the first murderer I slept with.”
“That’s…alarming.”
“This comin’ from the guy who gets horny after offin’ people,” Angel retorted, as Alastor slowly absorbed the information. “But, sure. Like ya said, I got terrible taste in men. So, yeah. Not the first.”
It was probably foolhardy of him, but Alastor ventured, a bit brazenly, “Perhaps the last.”
“Yeah,” Angel said, breath hitching. He rose up, heterochromatic eyes eclipsed by his dark pupils, then pressed a soft kiss to his chest. “The last.”
A teasing lick to the shell of his ear shocks him back to the present.
“But right now, Al, I’d like ya to fill me,” Angel finishes, voice lowered and layered. He gently squeezes, and Alastor's brain (both of them) registers it as a spectacular idea.
They decide to catch the next showing after they christen his car.
Angel, savage thing he is, expertly unbuckles his belt after he yanks Alastor into the backseat. His hips are propelled inside as Angel undoes his zipper, peels off his trousers and boxer briefs, peers up from under thick lashes, lolls out his tongue, and—
Flicks.
Alastor curses.
Angel dips the tip of his tongue inside his slit. Swirling it languidly around his crown. It’s wet, warm, and everything he desperately needs right now. Soft lips envelop his tip while his tongue massages the ridge of his cockhead. Just as he moans and thrusts inside that warm mouth, Angel pauses. He slowly, infuriatingly, pulls away, Alastor’s slickness wetting his lips. With a lascivious leer, he sticks out his tongue.
And waits.
Achingly bereft, Alastor bites down an embarrassing whine at the back of his throat. His hips rock forward. Tangling, winding his fingers through Angel’s hair, he rubs his cockslit against his waiting mouth. He ruts, reveling in the filthy smear of precum he leaves behind, smearing Angel’s makeup in the process.
A provocative, delectable smudge of pink on his shaft.
After a moment of deliciously mounting sensation, he withdraws and settles back down to observe the sordid scene closer. Cradling Angel’s face in his hands, he licks it off, tasting himself with every languorous, slick run of his tongue.
“Darling,” he murmurs, as Angel’s pupils obscure his eyes. “Aren’t you a picture.”
He’s too riled up for a furtive blowjob; too bloodthirsty and lust-crazed for anything other than total capitulation. Every nerve in his body electrified, singing with adrenaline and need. A base, bestial desire to claim. Ravage.
Despoil.
Trapped in that steaming, cramped car, he flips him over with a growl; Angel showcasing his impressive flexibility as the leg looped around him glides down his side before adjusting to the abrupt change in position. His pliable body immediately molding to his brutish handling. Angel’s knees thud into the cushions as he’s forced on all fours. Alastor unzips his dress as quickly as possible, almost ripping it apart in his haste. Tugging the fabric and his lace panties down, Alastor wastes no time in palming his greedy hands all over his warm, naked canvas.
There will be time for patience in the future. For hours of slow torture. For now…
He runs his fingers down Angel’s chest, dragging his nails over his sensitive nipples. Arching his back into an alluring bow, Angel hisses. Breath ragged, torn from his throat.
As always, he’ll apologize for the welts later.
He fits his cock in between those snug, delicious thighs. Hands braced on his soft cheeks; bordering that tattooed heart. He glides his shaft against Angel’s dick and balls, twitching with every shift of his hips. His teeth graze Angel’s exposed nape of their own accord; tongue darting out to soothe the trembling skin beneath and ease the inevitable. Stifling a pathetic whine as Angel draws his plush thighs together, his composure reaches its threshold.
It shatters.
Right before he reaches the brink, a flip switches.
He snarls. A warning in the eleventh hour.
He wrenches his hips back, jostling Angel off-balance, lines up, and shoves the head of cock inside him. Angel yelps, and the last remnant of his tattered conscience dimly registers the sound, but the rest of his wretched, greedy, damned-to-the-depths self chases his own satisfaction and pleasure. He sinks his teeth in Angel’s neck the same time he plunges himself fully inside him.
He wants to apologize for his trespass. His impatience. But his sanity, whatever is left of it, is instantly overridden by the majority of his degeneracy. He’s so warm; so deliciously tight, and it sends the rest of him into overdrive. Alastor prides himself on his self-control, but it grinds to dust whenever Angel is involved.
And he often is. Intimately.
It’s his weakness. His Achilles’ heel. And when he gasps and flexes and squeezes on Alastor’s cock, his mind blanks.
Blessedly so.
He comes, hissing and scraping his teeth on Angel’s naked nape; bucking his hips wildly as he throbs and empties himself inside him. It’s filthy, obscene, and Angel falls apart. Alastor’s hand shakily flies to his shaft, milking him until he tenses with a sob. His hand cups the pulsing head of Angel’s cock, hot seed spilling through his fingers. He manages to keep most of his come from dirtying the dress and the car seat while they catch their breaths. His chest moving in tandem with Angel’s trembling back.
Heartbeats both erratic and complementary.
Eventually, after an age, he pulls out, pressing his lips to his spine by way of apology. Angel arches into his touch in response.
They’ve still a while until the next showing, so Alastor sets to work. Fastidiously but gently, he cleans the mess they’ve made. He fixes their clothes, smoothing out the wrinkles as best he can, while Angel retouches his face. He’s leaning over him, rolling down the fogged windows to coax in the fresh evening air, when he notices Angel studying him from the corner of his eye.
For a split second, a brief ripple in time, it seems as if Angel wants to say something. Curiosity piqued, Alastor tilts his head to face him fully. But Angel tears his gaze away, chewing his lip; fingers twitching in his lap. Before Alastor can inquire, Angel surges up and kisses him.
Lips moving soundlessly against his.
Inaudible words stolen between sighs and tenuous breaths.
By the time they manage to extract themselves from the car and each other, the moment is long gone. Lost to the unrelenting orbit of time.
He supposes it must not have been anything important.