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.
Christ, he feels like it's the first time he's ever been kissed - or what he'd always imagined that the first time should have been like. Heady and powerful, the taste of Angel's tongue mingling with alcohol into something entirely unique, the sinner's hands on him and sliding under his clothes, digging into his skin with the skill of someone with decades of practice bringing it all to bear on him alone. He could drown in this, let Angel sweep him away until he's lost in him and would do anything to stay there.
But he knows that won't happen for so, so many reasons.
All the same, Blitzø sucks in a breath like coming up for air as Angel pulls away and lets himself be pushed back down onto the bed. His head is still spinning and it's natural to put his hands on Angel's hips, holding on like this would turn into a dream in a moment's notice if he didn't.
"You've already done that," he manages, although his gaze travels up and down Angel's body despite his best efforts not to be distracted. "You're worth staying for. Even without all of this fancy shit."
It's a familiar dance, even without a camera -- occasionally Angel hooks up with a costar outside the studio or lets some sleazy hellborn businessman have a turn with him to solidify the Vee's various connections. Sometimes it's Val he's in bed with, addled by love potions and hazy with pretending it's still four decades ago, that they're still bright and passionate and something a hell of a lot like being in love. Even the fact that Angel's totally sober, that he's choosing this, doesn't keep his body from slipping easily into the familiar movements.
Until Blitzø says something to throw him off, to make him pause, kneeling over the imp. Angel hesitates, eyes wide, sitting back on his heels for a moment, something fragile and soft shivering in his chest. "You -- don't gotta lie to me," he manages, hating how his voice shakes, how his throat is tight and his heart is thudding. "I mean. You don't gotta be nice. I don't..."
Need it, want it -- but no, he does. Angel wants it so bad, wants someone to look at every ugly little thing he is and call it gorgeous anyway, wants to curl up in someone's arms and let them touch him without worrying about if he's moaning right or letting the camera get his good side. He wants it so fucking bad. And it's written all over his face as he laughs, as the facade slips a little bit more. "Fuck, I dunno if I know how to be treated nice anymore."
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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.
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But he knows that won't happen for so, so many reasons.
All the same, Blitzø sucks in a breath like coming up for air as Angel pulls away and lets himself be pushed back down onto the bed. His head is still spinning and it's natural to put his hands on Angel's hips, holding on like this would turn into a dream in a moment's notice if he didn't.
"You've already done that," he manages, although his gaze travels up and down Angel's body despite his best efforts not to be distracted. "You're worth staying for. Even without all of this fancy shit."
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Until Blitzø says something to throw him off, to make him pause, kneeling over the imp. Angel hesitates, eyes wide, sitting back on his heels for a moment, something fragile and soft shivering in his chest. "You -- don't gotta lie to me," he manages, hating how his voice shakes, how his throat is tight and his heart is thudding. "I mean. You don't gotta be nice. I don't..."
Need it, want it -- but no, he does. Angel wants it so bad, wants someone to look at every ugly little thing he is and call it gorgeous anyway, wants to curl up in someone's arms and let them touch him without worrying about if he's moaning right or letting the camera get his good side. He wants it so fucking bad. And it's written all over his face as he laughs, as the facade slips a little bit more. "Fuck, I dunno if I know how to be treated nice anymore."