Laconic

Got The Love

He watched as they danced, a throng of bodies in all manner of clothing, sparkling and shining under the lights above that twisted and turned across their forms and drenched them in a myriad of colours, illuminating the revellers in an otherwise darkened club. Their hands raised high they paid homage to the throaty diva whose voice filled the room with song, her musical accompaniment throbbing, sending little shockwaves rippling across the surface of his whisky as it sat on the bar.

As he reached for the tumbler, Angel brushed off the offer of a drink from another potential suitor with a hard look and a shake of the head. Aside from the fact he was waiting for someone else, the vampire never liked anyone who wore flannel shirts. The suitor, a beefy Muscle Mary whose veins pulsed invitingly on the thick neck and the huge biceps, grunted and turned his attention to his next prey.

Just as he drank the last of the amber liquid a figure emerged from the writhing mass on the dance floor. Wrapped in black leather pants and a tight, dark blue t-shirt and topped with spiky black hair, the sight of the youth meant a heat in his loins suddenly provided a contrast to the burn in Angelís throat.

Oz reached Angel in a few short steps, feeling the arm flow around his waist, pressing his small, warm body close to the cool bulk of the vampire's. He offered up his lips for the sacrifice to the god of kissing, head titled back and eyes closed, and thrust into Angel when those cool, full lips took the offering and made it a holy experience.

Angel held tight to the smaller man, the delicious contradictions of their relationship cannon fodder in the constant battle raging in his head. In a terrible, blessed way the fact that Oz was male helped the soul stay in place. It was hard to have a moment of true happiness when whatever was left of Liam was aghast at this breach of the Catholic dogma that had taught him such things were absolutely wrong. Archaic values perhaps, but it helped when the demon, forked tongue flicking, tried to persuade Angel to forget about it all and just concentrate on the kiss, lose himself in the joy. Lose his soul in the sensation.

For his part, the werewolf tuned out the music and the lights, tried to clear his mind of all thoughts that did not focus on the emotion that was being with Angel. To remember the taste of his lips, the scent of his aftershave, the sight of his handsome face, framed by the sleek black hair and so devoid of any sign of the traumas that the mind had seen. Without any trace of what lay behind the ivory skin, that could so easily be released to contort the divine features to something altogether more demonic.

Oz wanted to remember it all, because tonight would be the last time he would get the chance.

 

The surf washes across the tangle of their lower limbs, and Oz silently wonders if Deborah Kerr knew what frottage meant. Itís cold where the salt water touches his body, but Angel's 'From Here to Eternity' fantasy is fulfilled and tonight that is more important. A cold and slippy hand clutches his erection, gripping tight and pulling hard, grains of sand a strange texture as they lie trapped between palm and penis.

He dips his head to suckle on a nipple, and the sand is there too. It gets everywhere. It's in his hair - in all the places where that applies - in his ears and between his toes and yet this is still easily one of the most erotic things he has ever done. Part of Oz hopes Angel feels the same way. Part of Oz fears that Angel might.

Summer has moved nearly into Fall, and Oz knows he must leave. He never expected to be in LA this long, and he never expected to be in any sort of relationship, let alone one with Angel. If a relationship it was - more an initial meeting in that club which had somehow turned into regular trysts in the dilapidated apartment that Oz was calling home, or the back of the van, or the hood of the Plymouth, or today, on the beach. It was mostly physical, neither willing nor able to commit much emotion. Not at first. That was the point, perhaps. That both understood the need to keep their feelings from interfering with the sweaty business of releasing tension. But Oz was beginning to yearn for Angel's touch when the vampire was not close, to miss the kisses and crave the feeling of cool muscle against his own. To contemplate the thought of making Angel's bed his own.

And if this was what he, Oz, was thinking, then Angel might be too. Which was altogether more dangerous.

Then his train of thought is swept away by a landslide of pleasure. The orgasm forces a cry of pleasure that sends some startled seagulls flapping and squawking into the air.

They frolic in the waves after that, Angel delighting in hooking his foot behind Oz's leg to watch the smaller man fall, arms flailing, into the briny, washing the sand from all the places where it had found purchase. And he delights in the kisses that Oz rains upon him even so.

 

Night was clinging to the sky but morning was not far from arrival when Angel awoke from his doze in the Plymouth. Oz was gone, but a letter fluttered on his windscreen, trapped by a wiper. He reached over the glass and down to retrieve the note, already fearing what message it held. The swish of the sea accompanied the grinding of his teeth as he read the words that made so little and yet so much sense.

Then he drives, because he needs to find shelter before the arrival of the sun, and because he doesnít know what else to do.

And he mourns for Oz, another sacrifice on the altar of his soul.



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Oz