“You could write a song,” murmured Oberon, lips brushing against Ángel’s ear. He grabbed a pillow, and Ángel lifted himself off the bed so that Oberon could push it under his hips; as he did so, he ground himself more intimately against Ángel’s upraised butt. “A beautiful song with complex rhymes and perfect metaphors, all suggesting that Con is feeble and sexually inept.”

“You are—” gasped Ángel. It was almost impossible to think, much less talk, while Oberon’s cock was grinding gently, without lube, between Ángel’s cheeks. “—super mean,” he managed. “‘Feeble and sexually inept’ is better than anything Con ever wrote.”

“You may have it for your song,” said Oberon, massaging his ass, rocking rhythmically.

“Thanks.” The rub of Oberon’s cock against Ángel’s opening was sending thrills jumping over all Ángel’s nerve endings. “Baby. Do you have any stuff?”

“Am I welcome?”

“Yes. If you have stuff.”

“Hmm.” A soft spurt of something thick and slippery made Ángel catch his breath; the connection between them became slick.

“Did—did you just—”

“Just a bit, for lubrication.”

“We have much to learn from your people,” giggled Ángel, a little hysterically, lifting up, ready for more.

The smooth head of Oberon’s cock slid through the slippery warmth, nudged Ángel intimately. “Relax, now,” murmured Oberon, spreading him with his thumbs, gently breaching him with the very tip. “That’s right.” Whatever he was doing made Ángel’s ass full of slickness, and he thrust shallowly through it, his head nudging against Ángel’s rim, the tip penetrating, then popping back out again. He resumed rocking slowly up and down Ángel’s crack, using his hands to squeeze Ángel’s cheeks tightly around his shaft, every once in a while letting the head of his cock drag against Ángel’s opening.

“Oh, fucking God,” moaned Ángel. “Will you hurry.”

“No.” Oberon was clearly in a leisurely mood, kneeling comfortably between Ángel’s spread legs. His big hands pulled Ángel open, exposed him, then let the head of his cock slide inside Ángel, then slipped it back out again. He kept doing that thing, leaking lubrication, warm and syrupy and tingling and copious, and it made soft squishing noises as he moved; it ran down Ángel’s channel, dripped down his legs, pooled in the small of his back, slicked over his balls and soaked into the pillow under his dick.

Ángel, hanging onto the edge of the mattress with a death grip, arched his body. “You’re killing me,” he panted. “Oberon. Please.”

“I know. But you’ll just have to wait.”

“I don’t want to wait,” whined Ángel.

Oberon exhaled huskily, a sound between a groan and a growl. “Oh, neither do I, really.” And then he slowly slid in, balls-deep.