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Guiltia tipped his head away, panting, aching, fingers flexing- He shuddered, pulling back, and Ange whined, nearly sprawled across him, clinging and warm.
‟A- a moment.” Guiltia managed roughly, and Ange whined again, winding his arms around Guiltia’s neck, pressing his mouth to Guiltia’s jaw.
He swallowed hard.
‟A moment.” he repeated, raw and ragged. ‟To- to collect-”
‟Come on,” Ange urged, hips twisting, drawing himself closer, ‟you don’t need to collect yourself, you’re here, with me.” He grinned, mismatched eyes bright with affection - with love - Guiltia felt he didn’t deserve, had done nothing to earn. ‟Come on.” Ange repeated, lips against his jaw, hands sliding down - hesitating at his waistband.
Guiltia caught his hands. ‟Wait, sweetling,” he said as Ange hissed reflexively, then bit his lip, looking up shyly through his lashes, ‟you’re not ready for this, and we-”
Ange hissed again and he broke off. Ange bared small, slim fangs. ‟I want you!” he sulked, and when Guiltia nudged him away he dropped onto the coffee table and folded his arms across his chest. He looked like a petulant child.
‟You’re not ready!” Guiltia repeated harshly, shaking his head once. Reminding himself, perhaps, as much as Ange. Ange who was- was so young, this boy-
Not a boy, any longer - not solely. Guiltia’s poison blood had its out, in the end, he thought morosely, fail though it had those long years ago.
‟I think you’re the one who’s not ready!” Ange threw back, scowling, eyes flashing.
‟Perhaps that is true.” Guiltia said more softly, gentle.
He hadn’t entirely intended so, but it knocked the wind from Ange’s sails. He hesitated, wavering, and his crossed arms slowly relaxed. He was a gentle creature, Guiltia thought, twisted with aching fondness; more like his father than his mother, for all his passionate fire.
And so little like Guiltia himself, in which he supposed he could take a thin, fragile comfort.
Though less, now, with Ange-
‟. . .Guil?” Ange brushed his fingers over Guiltia’s forearm. ‟You don’t mean that, you don’t. . .” He licked his lips, eyes flicking away, down, then back.
‟It is not that I do not want you.” Guiltia said, and that at least was honest, though it pained him to admit - he felt, still, he would only tarnish and crack Ange if he got too close; if he allowed the boy close. But Guiltia was selfish, deeply and brokenly, and his cracked heart throbbed. ‟I am only. . . It is. . .”
Guiltia grimaced, struggling with himself. It was difficult, coming to terms with how very much he did want Ange - how much he had, almost instantly, adored this bold, nervy young creature who he had helped, all unknowing, create. ‟I am getting used to it.” he admitted quietly, and was surprised by Ange climbing back into his lap - cosily this time, rather than the heated eagerness of before.
Ange smiled, kissing his cheek. ‟Okay. Then for you,” Ange said, kissing the corner of his mouth and purring as Guiltia embraced him, ‟slower.”