You would think he's lost, the way he looks uncertainly through the open roof door. Don't know why he'd get lost up here, but with Angel, nothing's impossible.
"Uh ... what're you doing?" he asks you, despite the fact that your bottle and your smokes are in plain sight on the edge of the roof.
It doesn't require an answer, so you don't give one. You look out over the sparkling city instead.
"Did you want to be alone?"
"No, Angel. I wanted to be surrounded by laughing children and warm puppies. But since all ya got down there is Wesley and Cordelia, my dreams were dashed."
A little sarcasm is good for the soul.
He doesn't retreat, which strikes you right off as odd. You swing your legs back over the ledge to the solid ground and face him. He stands with feet apart, hands supporting his weight on the back of an abandoned folding chair.
"Did you need something?" you ask, before raising the bottle of Johnnie Walker Red to your lips. If he tells you it's Wesley's, you'll break it on his moussed head. You know it's Wesley's. That's why you took it.
The uncertain look is replaced with determination, and you sigh disgustedly. Determination only means that Angel has Thought Things Out before coming to find you and now has Something To Discuss.
"Erm ... yes. Yes, I need something." He licks his lips and furrows his brow.
You gesture impatiently with the hand holding the cigarette. "Have at it, mate."
"I need a blowjob."
He makes this statement as you are inhaling sweet nicotine, and for the first time in a hundred years, you choke on your smoke. Your lungs are burning and your throat is closing up and you can't stop coughing.
He of course waits patiently for your vision to clear, and when you finally wipe the tears from your eyes and spit the acrid taste from your mouth, Angel is standing in the same place. Feet apart, hands on the chair. The determined expression is gone, however, and now there is blankness.
"Forget it," he says flatly. And then turns to go.
Aw, hell. You weren't laughing at him, he just caught you by surprise. He never asks for that shit. Angel never asks for anything.
"Hey," you say loudly, before he reaches the door. "Come back, dumbass. I can't blow ya from there."
Well if that ain't the goofiest lookin' smile.
He returns, eyes down, and you pick up on the "pretend I'm submissive" vibe. Angel's an anomaly, that's for damn sure. You push him down in the old metal chair because it's what he seems to want, and try not to laugh when you see his fingers already fiddling with his belt.
"Lemme do it," you growl, and his nostrils flare out at the command. He drops his hands to his sides and the bulge at his crotch grows bigger. Makes it tricky to maneuver his pants down, but in his anxiousness, he helps by lifting his hips.
You're good at giving head. It ain't braggin', s'just a fact. And Angel likes gettin' it. So when you kneel before him and take his cock in one hand and start running the velvet head over your dry lips, he practically wriggles with happiness.
You slip the soft mushroom tip past your lips and tongue the small hole, keeping a firm hand around the shaft and bringing your other hand up to cup his sac. You could make this last all night if you felt like it. Again, not braggin'. You've done it before. All you have to do is lower your head slowly ... slowly, keeping a nice suction going, pushing the foreskin back and coating his pale dick with your saliva. You stop for a minute to look at it, and admire how it glistens with your wetness in the light from the full moon.
He doesn't let you admire for long, thrusting up impatiently and whimpering -
Maybe it won't last all night.
Keeping your eyes on the job in front of you, you lower your mouth again and then withdraw quickly, making sure your hand remains on his balls. You'll give him another ten minutes of this, at least, before -
Huh. Maybe not. You feel him shudder and he slams his hands down to grip the sides of the rusty chair, and then with one more thrust into your open mouth, he's coming.
Shortest blowjob in history.
You dutifully swallow what he delivers and give him one last swipe with the flat of your tongue. You cock an eyebrow up at him from your position between his legs.
He grins at you, a real, genuine grin. Happy Angelus. Amazing what a little head'll do. He stands and picks up his pants, then offers you a hand up. You take it.
"Thanks," he says cheerfully. "You can go back to your ... uh ... whatever you were doing before."
And then the roof is yours again, just yours and the moon's.