entrenous
NC-17 Angel/Xander
A collection of one-shots in which Xander is the live-in love-monkey for an older, wealthy Angel.
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Drive My Car
“Spread ‘em wider,” Angel muttered.
“You know, I always pictured an officer of the law saying that to me one day,” Xander mused as he obliged by moving his legs apart where he stood. “Maybe for disturbing the peace, or after getting caught taking new and exciting drugs. I should have a better imagination, huh? Because really, that’s a damn romantic phrase.”
Angel made an exasperated noise that turned into a pleased sound as he yanked down Xander’s jeans.
“Hands,” Angel prompted, and Xander slid his palms further away from each other on the hood of the car.
“I think a therapist would call this an interesting choice for an assignation.” Xander looked around the garage that housed Angel’s twelve favorite cars -- well, as much as he could, given the pose he was now in. “But since I’m strictly the armchair variety of psychologist, I’ll just ask straight out: Is it me, or the car you want to be fu -- oh my god,” Xander choked out as Angel thrust inside of him all at once.
“Yeah, nice, that’s real nice,” Angel panted. He stayed still for a moment, running his hands roughly under Xander’s t-shirt and jacket, and then started to snap his hips forward. “Just like that, baby, don’t move unless I say so.”
Xander could feel the rasp of Angel’s zipper grating against his bare ass as Angel surged forward and pulled back. Despite being told to stay put, he found himself snuffling against the hood. Damn regular wax jobs.
But apparently that was okay by Angel, because he made a strained noise just before he got his hand on the back of Xander’s neck, holding him down. “Hell, yeah,” he hissed. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous like this, love seeing you under me.”
“Again,” Xander gasped. “Me or the car?”
“Shut up,” Angel said. At least he said it in what were clearly good spirits, because he moaned pleasurably right afterwards, lifting Xander’s torso up just enough to thumb over one nipple and then the other, fast little flicks that only got harder and faster.
Xander’s eyes started to tear, and even though he really wanted to object to the “shut up” thing, he was too busy working his hips back to catch every shove Angel made at just the right angle. “Oh man,” he breathed. “That’s . . . uh . . . that’s good . . .”
“Of course it’s good,” Angel said, but he seemed magnanimous enough about it to grab Xander’s hips harder, bending him over and up more so that Angel could work his hand in for a time-honored reach-around.
“Yeah,” Xander grunted. “Oh god, oh Angel, Jesus, harder, give it to me, fuck!”
His nose skidded along the finish as Angel did just that, a volley of hip-twisting, butt-bruising jerks that made Xander want to both cuss Angel out with the best blue streak he could get going and get down on his knees and kiss his feet.
By the time his balls drew up, Angel was on his last thrust, and he held Xander through the aftershocks and until they could both catch their breath.
As they stood and zipped and snapped and straightened, Angel asked, “You’re not actually taking any new and exciting drugs, are you?” in his dad is a very strict disciplinarian voice.
Xander shook his head, still feeling the post-fucking fog in his brain spreading out. “No way. I’m just not that interesting.”
“You’re interesting enough,” Angel allowed, smacking Xander on the ass before steering them both to the elevator that would take them back upstairs.
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