The blush is -- cute. It's cute, and fuck, Angel doesn't know what to do with that. It feels like something special, and feelings like that are fucked, because they never last. You can't build survival and safety on feeling like you're special to someone. You can't eat it, it doesn't keep the rain off. All it does is make you weaker, more vulnerable.
But he shoves that aside, one set of hands reaching up to cradle Blitzø's face, the other slipping off his jacket, sliding under the open neck of his shirt. Imps burn hotter than other sinners do, lit from within like coals, like sparks of flame. All Hellborn do, in Angel's experience, but there's something sharp and addictive about imps in general and Blitzø in particular. Talk about special.
That can be enough, Angel thinks, pressing closer and dragging his nails lightly over Blitzø's shoulders, digging in just the slightest bit. Even if he isn't special -- won't be in the morning, never is, not once, not with the lights on -- he can make someone feel special. His tongue curls into Blitzø's mouth, flicking across the edge of a fang, the fork of his tongue, drawing in his taste. "Well, then," Angel mumbles on a shuddery breath, eyes bright, near neon in the dim light. "Guess I better give ya somethin' worth stayin' for, yeah?" The sinner leans back, presses a hand to Blitzø's chest, urging him to lie back, to watch Angel peel off the loose, oversized shirt slowly, bit by bit, showing off his whole fluffy body, the pink of the heart pattern on his chest and down his stomach.
no subject
But he shoves that aside, one set of hands reaching up to cradle Blitzø's face, the other slipping off his jacket, sliding under the open neck of his shirt. Imps burn hotter than other sinners do, lit from within like coals, like sparks of flame. All Hellborn do, in Angel's experience, but there's something sharp and addictive about imps in general and Blitzø in particular. Talk about special.
That can be enough, Angel thinks, pressing closer and dragging his nails lightly over Blitzø's shoulders, digging in just the slightest bit. Even if he isn't special -- won't be in the morning, never is, not once, not with the lights on -- he can make someone feel special. His tongue curls into Blitzø's mouth, flicking across the edge of a fang, the fork of his tongue, drawing in his taste. "Well, then," Angel mumbles on a shuddery breath, eyes bright, near neon in the dim light. "Guess I better give ya somethin' worth stayin' for, yeah?" The sinner leans back, presses a hand to Blitzø's chest, urging him to lie back, to watch Angel peel off the loose, oversized shirt slowly, bit by bit, showing off his whole fluffy body, the pink of the heart pattern on his chest and down his stomach.