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Cage by dee
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Author's Notes:
Elle and I once agreed that John/Angela PWP was entirely out of the question due to the complexity of the characters and their dynamic. As always, as soon as I'd decided it was impossible, my brain started trying to figure out how to do it.
The words slide out of Angela's mouth and curl around her head like smoke.

In the silence that descends, she's watching him, and John's very aware that he needs to reply, but he can't speak, can't even think in words, just images, hot and flashing like the fire she's set in his veins with one sentence of short, simple words.

She squares her shoulders, bringing up belligerence with the jerk of her chin. "I'm not asking for eternal devotion, John. I just want you to fuck me."

She's standing by his table, in a posture of impatience. He's still got the door in one hand, just let her in. Not one to delay for the social niceties, Detective Dodson. The first time she came to visit him, flashing her badge, she had her hair up, pulled back, business-like. It's loose around her shoulders tonight.

Angela grits her teeth. "Forget it," she says, and starts for the door.

He closes it before she makes it.

She recoils a little, her momentum truncated as she comes up against his space, where he's stepped across into her path in closing the door. She looks up at him. She's never given an inch, and she's not going to start now. John has his hand half on the door, half on the jamb, and he knows as soon as he stops touching it, he's going to need to be touching her.

"OK," he says.

He steps forward, and the strap of Angela's bag slithers down her shoulder. She tosses it aside. He thinks he'll crowd her back, against the edge of the table, but she holds her ground. John steps forward again and his hand falls away from the door, coming up to her, to push his fingers into her hair against her scalp, behind her ear. Her chin tilts up to meet his mouth descending.

He's not one for delays of politeness either, but her mouth's open as soon as his is, her tongue waiting for him. Her hand's a fist in the front of his shirt, pulling him forward. He wonders if he's Angela's excuse to kiss like this, like she's accusing him of murder.

There's no reason he should be even slightly surprised by the way her mouth is all about more, now, faster, harder, yes. She's asked, after all. She's asked for more.

John wants to give it to her more than he's wanted anything in a long time.

His shirt's out at the waist, her fingers tangled in it, air on his skin. He's halfway to hard and she's up against him, her body arched from open mouth to hip. She tastes of stale coffee and flesh. Carnal things. Demands.

He pushes her backward and this time she goes, not giving way but moving with him, a hitch and a smear that makes him bite her bottom lip. Her breath's coming harsh and unheeded around the business of their mouths. His too.

Angela puts the heel of one hand on the edge of the table, and he helps fumble her up onto it, running his hands down the back of her legs. As she parts them, he pulls her knees either side of his hips. She's got a handful of shirtfront and tie, pulls him in. Bites his jaw, her teeth scraping over day-and-a-half-old stubble.

She's wearing pants, and John wishes it was a skirt. He gets her shirt two-thirds unbuttoned before her breasts distract him, the heft in his palm, the twitch of her cheek when he brushes a thumb over her nipple through thin lace. He bends his head, sucking blood to the surface low on her neck. Her fingers grip in his hair, and the huffs a breathless little laugh. "I didn't really--"

"Shut up," he suggests, and kisses her again.

"Fuck you," she mutters against his mouth, and he kisses her harder, deeper, and she meets him, matches him. He could sell his soul for women who kiss like this. Has before, in fact. Not something to think about now.

Angela's got a heel pressing in at the back of his thigh and he's hard against her. "John," she mumbles, and he likes the sound of that, really quite a lot, his hand on her hip, and then, "John," she says again, both more and less serious this time.

He's almost laughing with her, because she's a little arched back over the table, one hand braced between his glass and the bottle he was filling it from, and he's already got a twinge in his back from leaning over her. He grins against her collarbone and thinks that he's probably getting too old to do it on the kitchen table, anyway.

So he gives her some space, enough to let her slide down off the table, little enough that she's sliding down his body as well, which is many pleasant sorts of distracting, and the kiss she gives him is half grin and all teeth. He kisses her back, thorough as he likes, until she nudges him again towards movement.

It's not that far down the length of his flat. She's not going to get lost; he doesn't hold her hand. The partition's two-thirds across the apartment, and he's actually surprised he notices it at all, he's so used to it normally. Her presence, perhaps. The fact that she mentioned it the first time they lay together on his bed. ("Mostly to keep things out," he said, but maybe she was already asleep.)

Beside the bed he turns, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt. Angela's paused just inside the cage, her shirt gaping, her feet bare, her hair tumbling, her hand on the partition.

Her knuckles tighten, and she pulls it closed behind her.

John feels it, the rattle-clang of it sliding home, and he shucks the shirt, tossing it towards the armchair without looking. It's two steps across to where she's standing, the cage at her back. She takes in a quick breath as he braces bare arms either side of her head, fingers twining into the metal mesh. But her eyes are open, meeting his. He has the urge to ask why she's here, even though she's told him already, perfectly clearly, and that's all he needs.

Leaning forward, Angela kisses him, and she doesn't taste of anything anymore, just being kissed. The press of her lips, the sweep of her tongue, is the only place they're touching, then she shifts forward, close against him, and he feels lace against his bare chest. Her hands run up his back, and he untangles his fingers from the cage. His fingers are cold from the metal, and when he strokes the back of his knuckles across her ribcage, she flutters away from his touch on a stuttering breath. (It's half laughter, he thinks, but he's too busy kissing her to really take note.) He undoes the last two buttons on her shirt, then shoves it down her arms. It's briefly a knot of limbs and cloth, then Angela shakes it off.

Her arms go back around him, her hands on his skin. She doesn't caress so much as probe, her hands insistent, smearing, like she's wiping off her fingerprints on him.

John runs his hands down her sides to hips, wishes again she was the sort of woman to wear skirts. Holds her hips, hard, against his and she makes a sound far back in her throat. She's been quiet so far. He's had girlfriends who moan, who talk and hiss and swear, but Angela's not making a performance of it. That sound, so deep in her mouth that he can't taste it, isn't anything conscious, and it goes through him, meeting up with the way she digs her fingers briefly into his back, just above his kidneys, and the way she moves her hips again, against him.

John needs to get her goddamn pants off now; pushes her back with a hand up her torso, under her breast, and the cage rattles on its runners as she hits it.

For a moment he pauses, but Angela's not breakable, he knows that, and she's pulling him after her, jostling the hand he's got at the zip of her pants. "Yes, c'mon," she mutters, her knuckles against his stomach as she works his belt buckle. There's a knack to it, and he helps her, their fingers brushing together.

He's got her pants half off her hips, stroking a thumb down the crease of her thigh, just inside the elastic of her underwear (and what she mutters this time is unintelligible) when she gets his trousers open. He's not wearing anything under them, and she's very direct for a good Catholic girl. John hisses in a breath, one hand coming up to brace against the mesh of the cage, and she chuckles against his throat.

"This a subtle hurry up?" he asks, faintly surprised he can sound reasonably steady.

As if in reply, Angela lets him go, hooks her arm up behind her to unclip her bra. She slides her cheek along his (and surely the stubble's like sandpaper, but she's not complaining) and says, against his mouth this time, "Yes."

He kisses her - it's not getting old - as he hooks her pants and underwear off her hips in one go, as she pushes his trousers off his hips and lets gravity do the work. John winces as his belt buckle lands on his foot; she steps out of the puddle of her clothes, close to serene, entirely naked. Beautiful.

He's waited for this, he suddenly knows, and doesn't know where that came from.

Angela brushes past him, crawling onto the bed before turning, scooting backwards across it. The flex of her legs is so damn tempting that John has to grab her ankle, tug her back towards him. She's breathing heavily as he slinks up, over her; his own breath has been steadier, but he doesn't think there's anyone in the world who would blame him.

He nudges one knee inside hers, finds her hands with his, tangles their fingers, presses her wrists to the mattress. She's the most beautiful thing he's had laid out on his bed all week. Arching up against him, head tilting back. He sucks at the hollow of her throat, the faintest taste of sweat, and slides lower, taking her nipple in his mouth. She whimpers a little, her thigh sliding up the outside of his.

He wants her. So very much. Half an hour ago she knocked on his door and when he opened it, she walked in, looked at him - at him like no one else had - and said, "I want you to fuck me." She asked.

So he does.

She bites her bottom lip as he pushes into her, but keeps her eyes open. John watches them, watches her. He lets go of her wrists and she twists her fingers in the sheets, her breasts rising on the deep breath she takes. "Goddamn," she says, and he doesn't know anyone who blasphemes with as much conviction as she does. "John..."

Her hands come up to his shoulders, slip down his back, as he moves inside her. With her, because she's never quite still beneath him, against him, around him. Coming up to meet him, her thighs flexing against his hips and her hands now in his hair, now twisting fingers in the pillowcase above her head. Once, as she writhes, arm pushing across the sheet, he catches it, and bites the inside of her forearm because he wants every inch of her. She's all his, here and now. The sweat that beads between her breasts. The noises she's making without meaning to, a squeak, a breathy grunt. Her eyes, wide and dark and hungry, and eventually they squeeze reluctantly shut. Eventually, his do as well.

She says his name once more, before the end. He kisses her, hard, distracted, and he's still kissing her when he comes, and afterwards as well. Afterwards as well.



John wakes up somewhere around midnight, and she's fast asleep, sprawled in his bed, not touching him. All over him.

He gets up for a cigarette, because he has to; everyone has a limit. He sits on the window ledge and exhales smoke up towards the moon, somewhere above the low-grade haze of streetlight. The window's open; the cage as well. He thinks about things escaping, and about things getting in.