Loz (lozenger8) wrote,

What hath night to do with sleep?

Title: What hath night to do with sleep?
Fandom: Eternal Law
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,740 words
Notes: And now that I have committed sweet speculative character study, I bring the porn. Zak/Tom PWP, with Zak/Hannah mentions. Also, I guess this is wingfic? LA LA LA LA LA LA!
Summary: “I don’t feel right,” Tom says, voice going shaky and knees wobbling to the side. Zak helps him into his chair. “I feel decidedly wrong.”

Only a true sadist would put angels on Earth with both full working equipment and strong, driving urges. Zak scowls up at the sky the first night Tom comes to him, eyes shining in the dim light of the moon. And --- dear God --- he hopes they’re not unshed tears, that would be too much.

“I don’t feel right,” Tom says, voice going shaky and knees wobbling to the side. Zak helps him into his chair. “I feel decidedly wrong.”

Tom licks his lips once, twice. Three times is when Zak finally pulls his hand away from his shoulder.

“You might be running a fever,” Zak suggests, but he knows that isn’t true, because he noticed, when Tom was about a step away from crashing to the floorboards, that Tom was hard in his trousers. That, coupled with the barest hint of a flush over his cheeks, the jitter in his limbs --- they slot together to complete a rather becoming yet also worrying puzzle; a jigsaw of the Bayeux Tapestry, or Lady Gaga.

“I do feel like I’m burning up,” Tom says, but even though he’s pure, he’s not stupid, so his expression screws and he says, “I’m not sick, I’m tempted… does it always feel like this?”

It doesn’t. Sometimes it’s worse. Other times it’s a dull ever-present ache. Never having actually been human, Zak doesn’t know if it’s comparable, he only knows that humans do many stupid things for sex, related to sex, and if it’s because it feels like this, he can sympathise.

“You should go back to bed and see if you feel better in the morning,” Zak says, because, damned if he isn’t a little tempted himself. Not that there are rules against angels fraternising with one another. More that he has a self-imposed rule. Not again. Not after Hannah. Not when Hannah is so close and yet so far away.

Tom’s lower lip pouts and he nods. If Zak wasn’t so wizened in the ways of the world, he’d almost think Tom had been angling…

But Tom would not do that, because he is sweetness and light itself.


The second night Tom comes to him they’ve had two months and six cases together. They’ve bickered, teased, made one another laugh, made one another feel pain. They’re friends, Zak realises one day. They’re honest-to-God friends. Who spent the evening getting drunk and playing chess, using it as a completely unsubtle metaphor for their dealings with mortal beings.

“What did you want?” Zak asks at the door to his room, eyebrow raised because it conveys his mood and his question adequately. He hasn’t allowed himself to think of the first night, so he doesn’t immediately skip to anything other than ‘Tom is my friend, he’s at my door.’

“I don’t…” Tom begins. He looks down at the floorboards. He mumbles the rest. “Seem to be able to give myself any relief.”

There is something very lovely in the fullness of his lips, how his close-cropped hair makes his ears seem much larger than they are, and Zak says, “Try sitting on your hand for ten minutes and then give it a go,” closing the door before the ‘o’ has become fully rounded. He sits down at the base of his bed with a thump and takes a deep, steadying breath.

He hasn’t thought of that first night, but he has thought of Tom. He couldn’t not. His joyous smiles, his foolish humming, his lithe and perfectly toned body, made for exploration. When thinking of Hannah has been too painful (how would they fit together, with him in this new, less-honed body? What would this voice sound like in counterpoint to her once oft-heard and beloved sighs and moans?) he has thought of Tom and how awful it must be to have a need that can’t be properly sated.

He’s thought about Tom standing in his own room, looking at himself speculatively in the mirror, brushing his fingers over his curves and hard planes and trying to find what works best.

More than one’s own hand works best, Zak knows this to his damn near downfall.


The third, fourth and fifth nights are more allusion after an evening celebrating or grousing than anything, but Zak counts them because he’s anally retentive that way. He’s a lawyer and lawyers build cases using the evidence they’re given. Sometimes they even go out of their way to find more. So he counts them and suddenly it’s the sixth night, and Tom is lying on his bed --- lying on his bed, in wait! --- and Zak is tired of this game.

“You’re supposed to teach me,” Tom says with a shrug of his elegant shoulder.

“Not this.”

“No,” Tom agrees. “Probably not. But I’d like to know. Just the once.”

Zak eyes him. Can he really be so young? “It would never be ‘just the once’.”

“I never expected you to offer more than a night,” Tom says, half-way to delighted and ---

“That isn’t what I meant and you know that.” Zak sits down on the edge of the bed, close enough for Tom to touch him. It’s the first sign he’s given that he is willing to make this mistake, that he’s stupid enough to want to.

Tom sits up on the bed, brushes his hand over Zak’s back, confident in ways only someone relatively new to this form could be. He has no self-esteem issues, no real sense of shame. He is as those in the Garden of Eden. Zak finds himself wanting to hum to Iron Butterfly.

He looks down at his own body. It’s… older than the last one, reflecting his age in the way it absolutely couldn’t, unless it was a pile of ashes, but, still, it does so, in a fashion. It’s not so full of youth. Not old. Not grey. But it looks more experienced. There’s fat where there was none before, wrinkles where he was once smooth. This body would not attract everyone. He quite likes it, actually. It does its job well.

“You would have me open your eyes to the torment of the flesh?”

He always likes to get theatrical and formal to upset Tom’s balance, but it’s been long enough now that Tom knows this and isn’t that impressed.

“I’d have you stroke my cock,” Tom says, all boyish bravery. He’s trying so hard to be crass, it comes across as saintly again.

Zak remembers the sense of craving, of heart-beating nail-biting necessity. Remembers because it hasn’t ever completely left. And when you’ve never felt someone else’s touch before, when you only know your own skin, when there are no surprises, because you’ve thought the action a second before you’ve followed through…

Zak gives himself a laboured, thought-provoking moment where he considers all of the appalling situations Tom might be led into, thanks to his temptation. Richard has been waiting so very patiently for a new angel to entice and enthral. Richard has skills in seduction.

He drags Tom into a kiss, cradles his head, and Tom is every bit the inexperienced whelp, because he bites Zak’s lip in his surprise. This does very bad things to Zak’s self-control. He pushes Tom back onto the bed and kisses deep, filthy.

“Oh, wow, this is amazing,” Tom murmurs between kisses.

For a second, more, Zak wants to bow down to the false idol that is his ego and say, ‘You think I’m amazing now? This is only the beginning.’

Tom is wearing too many clothes. He was unashamed enough to lie on Zak’s bed, not quite brazen enough to do it stripped bare. Zak finds that he prefers it. Tom is a present waiting to be unwrapped. A trinket so shiny and new it hasn’t even faded in the sunlight. Zak gently undoes his buttons, brushes the pads of his fingers under the flaps of shirt-material as they part. He remembers, with Hannah once --- and then he stops, because that is unfair, to all parties involved, and he’s not going to think about that, about her, about them, anymore. Tom writhes beneath him, skin hot, full lips open and glistening. Tom, who is worthy of this being affection not just release; decision not just compulsion.

“I’ve thought about this,” Tom says, voice caught on a whimper. God, he is so beguiling. “More than anything. You have such kind eyes and I’ve always wanted to see them looking at me like this, like I’m gifted all the attention in the world. I never imagined it could feel so ---”

And that’s it, isn’t it? It feels so Heavenly. Like all the stars are aligned when a tongue is swirling where your purely decorative navel is. Zak kisses down his chest and proves that to shut him up.

The words ‘exquisite’ and ‘nubile’ were made for this body, Zak thinks, unzipping Tom’s trousers and tugging them off his slim hips. Tom wriggles to assist the movement, and that’s good, that works, that’s precisely the reason Zak has turned him away so many times.

Tom’s cock curves upwards, already hard. It is another example of perfection. If God made man in his own image, then Mr Mountjoy indeed. It’s long and thick and fits just right into Zak’s hand. Zak strokes, once, but Tom winces. He spits on his hand and tries again and this time, oh yes, that’s how it’s supposed to go, sliding hotly up to the tip and down again, using his other hand to caress Tom’s balls and elicit that deep, more-baritone-than-tenor sound. For parts that are purely ornamental, there to fool interrogative doctors and other such pains in the neck, they seem to service their function surplus to requirements.

Zak realises about four strokes and one tight grip on his wrist later that he’s been thinking far too much and he surrenders himself to sensation.

He bends down and licks a line up Tom’s inner thigh, deliberately brushing his day-old stubble against skin that he knows is over-sensitive. Tom’s muscles tighten and he gasps. He repeats this on the other side. Tom rises onto his elbows and looks down at him, and as light glints off his irises, Zak thinks he sees a little bit of his true spirit shining through --- something otherworldly and magnificent.

“Can I suck you?” Zak asks, because what else should you say to an angel splayed beneath you like this? What other words could possibly do the opportunity justice? Maybe ‘can I fuck you?’ but it’s early days yet, and, it could be a problem that Zak is already planning next time.

“Please,” Tom answers. He laughs a touch hysterically, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Be my guest.”

Zak shifts position until he’s holding Tom’s buttocks, his legs splayed to the sides. It’s slightly uncomfortable --- this body has creaks and aches and pains on occasion that can be perplexing --- but worth it for the angle and the ability it will give Tom to thrust up.

He knows his tongue must feel the right side of rough when he licks against the thin skin of Tom’s balls. Is fully aware that humans would call the way he rings his tongue around the base of his cock sinful. Tom’s breathing goes high and reedy, his eyes roll back. Zak pauses, worried.

“Don’t stop,” Tom says, all shaky-voiced, teeth close on a chatter. He shivers as if all his senses are overloaded.

“Are you all right?” Zak persists, because he may be an angel, but he’s frequently far from angelic.

“I’m more than all right, I am everything perfect, so, please, continue.”

Zak smiles and does as he is bidden. As soon as he wraps his lips around the top of Tom’s cock, Tom pushes up with an aborted cant of his hips. Zak pulls off.

“Shh,” he soothes. “I know it can be overwhelming.”

“It could if you would hurry up,” Tom retorts. It’s only been a few months and already he has a smart mouth on him. Zak is inordinately pleased.

He resumes his earlier action, then tongues at the slit of Tom’s cock, tasting salt and sweat and pre-come. And that is new. That is decidedly an experience he has never had before, in this or his other body. He can’t get enough. He licks and sucks with intent, now, painfully aware that his own cock is trapped within his trousers and chafing with the constriction. He can’t move as much as he’d like and continue to stare at Tom, but it’s not the first sacrifice he’s ever made in the name of glory and it won’t be his last.

The power of it is intoxicating. He is Tom’s first. Perhaps he shall be his only. He is the one to bring him untold joy and splendour. He is the one to see him at his strongest and weakest simultaneously.

Tom clutches onto his sheets, his fingers knotted in the linen, and rocks up, pushing more of his cock into Zak’s mouth. His chest is sheened with sweat, he’s caught his lower lip with his teeth, his eyes are screwed tight, and he is even lovelier like this than when he’s laughing, which Zak didn’t think was possible.

And then Tom’s wings open out, white so brilliant in the light from the bulb that Zak has to squint. His feathers splay wide and free, taking up space that isn’t really available in Zak’s room.

The contrast between his Earth-bound and Heavenly bodies is astounding and Zak stutters in his movements. He’s seen much, done much, but nothing like this, nothing that he couldn’t summon the words to describe. He chose to be a lawyer because words are his forte, but there is none that is appropriate here. He wants to stroke his fingers against those feathers, wants to feel their downy touch. He’s never been that transfixed by a body-part before. Least of all one that can be more burden than blessing. And yet, on Tom, they are, in every sense of the word, divine. He closes his eyes from the majesty of the view and sucks harder.

Tom comes with a force that tears a guttural grunt from his throat, every muscle tensing as he shoots hot and wet into Zak’s mouth. His wings flutter through the aftershocks, Zak can hear them, only stopping when he flops down against Zak’s sheets.

Zak is worried he’ll do himself an injury if he so much as attempts to divest himself of his trousers, so he ruts against the bed like the teenager he has never been. His heart is racing a mile a minute in his chest, he’s rarely felt so alive. It hardly takes a moment before he’s coming, hard, pleasure-pain and completion. There’s no room to roll to the side, so he doesn’t. He collapses between Tom’s legs and rests his face against his lower abdomen.

“Are you comfortable there?” Tom asks, his voice full of humour.

He rakes his fingers through Zak’s hair and the touch is so absurdly intimate, Zak shudders.

“Yes, thank you. And you?”

“Not really, but I’ll make do if I must.”

Zak looks up with one eye. His other is steadfastly closed against damp, soft skin. “Is that what you decided when you chose to seduce me? Oh, he’ll do if he must?”

“Yes, absolutely. There was no consideration of the fact you’re the only one I’ve ever had need to trust, and do, or your weirdly attractive imperious expressions, and certainly it had nothing at all to do with the way you say your words just so. You were a means to an end.”

Zak can’t help himself, he giggles. Not a manful chuckle, or a ferocious bark, but a giggle. He shifts upwards and raises his eyebrow, imperious as he can manage in a post-sex haze.


“Is it because of the whole angel thing?” Tom asks a few minutes later. He gestures downwards and, even after the closeness they have shared, he’s shy. Not regretful, or guilt-stricken, but shy.

“No, darling, that’s because you’re young,” Zak answers, solemnly. He earns a kick for his troubles.

Only a true sadist would put angels on Earth with both full working equipment and strong, driving urges. Sleepy and sated, Zak decides that only a true masochist would live his life on Earth and not take full advantage of these.

Tags: eternal law, rated nc-17, this may be a sickness, writing

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