Angel Dust

Angel standing his ground, the blatant defiance, the fucking backtalk - all of it makes Valentino's blood run hot, a familiar mix of anger and arousal rushing through him as Angel hisses at him like his attitude has never earned him a sharp backhand before. Valentino's grip tightens in the front of his jacket, claws just starting to push through the material, his other hands curling around the railing on either side of him and pinning him into what very little space is left between them.

It probably wouldn't kill him, if Angel took a tumble over the edge and fell to the bottom floor. For a split second, Valentino imagines it in slow motion. He picture's Angel's eyes, mismatched and wide, hands outstretched and reaching toward the only thing that could maybe save him - the only thing that could ever save him - and finding nothing but open air. He doesn't fantasize about killing Angel - at least, not right now, he isn't - but about Angel needing him. Always.

Valentino's already leaning toward him a little bit, slowly and subtly trying to coax him into leaning backward, when Angel claws at him and grabs a hold of his shirt collar. He comes down easily, though he wasn't likely to resist anyway, considering this is exactly what he'd been looking for when he'd decided to start a fight for fun, and when his mouth meets Angel's it's with enough force and enthusiasm that Val's teeth click against his for a second before he immediately tries pushing his tongue past them.

His hands on the railing release and blindly find and settle on Angel's body, broad palms fitting around his ribcage and dragging down to his hips so he can pull their bodies flush, his erection pressing against Angel's lower stomach.