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 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."