[fic] demon-touched sophists (AU SPN/Angel, Sam/Lindsey) R
Title: demon-touched sophists
Fandoms: Angel, SPN
Pairing: Sam/Lindsey
Rating: R
Warning: aggressive foreplay, sex
For: Mere de Vachon, because I owe her and I love her dearly.
In the slow, climbing heat of the loft at midnight, research by candlelight is less romantic than irritating. His gaze trips over a passage in Latin, notes in Hebrew, added marginalia in diagrams that look like Dean-does-Kabbalah. Sam glances at his laptop with a mental snarl of four syllable curses and philosophical Latin, then closes his eyes to try to call up the scans he can't cross-reference til tomorrow.
Blistering heat on his bicep snaps his eyes open - to near dark, punctuated by Lindsey in the glow of the final remaining candle, jaw set with determination, ink on his chest darker in the backlight. Rubbing the splash of candle wax off his arm, Sam narrows his gaze. "The hell?"
"You just told that book to sodomize itself on a donkey's dick. In Latin." There's a gleam of malicious glee in Lindsey's eyes and his smile's downright feral. Of course, because the intellectualizing of Sam's internal monologue came at the ends of Lindsey's fists and teeth; a quickly learned lesson that Lindsey didn't want the watered down version of him. "You're done."
"And you have a Napoleon complex." Pointedly, Sam finishes a line of notes on one of a case of battered legal pads they'd salvaged from the destroyed offices of Jones-Day Gotham.
More wax splatters on Sam's wrist and the blank part of the pad. Intentionally, Sam knows without needing to see the calculation in Lindsey's eyes when he flings out a hand and slams him back into the saddle-leather couch across the room. Setting the pad aside, he stalks toward Lindsey, struggling on his back under his telekinetic grasp. His vocabulary isn't the only thing that's improved from their sometimes volatile arrangement.
A blast of teke slams him in the back and sends him sprawling over Lindsey's heat-sticky chest and spread thighs. The sudden pitch dark from a mind-pinched candle, sharp pain in his throat and the heated slur of "said you were done" warn him his hold's broken seconds before they're rolling off the battered couch onto the furniture-gouged hardwood floor.
"Said you were bossy and short," Sam growls and twists out from under him, still rolling. The incongruous thought that Dean would be proud he's learning to fight rises and fades with the spark of a hot smile and his mouth crashing down over Lindsey's.
Giving away the advantage in the kiss, Lindsey snaps his legs up and around Sam, dragging him down and ducking his shoulder. Inked skin rakes across inked skin when they flip again, cursing and biting. They pit themselves against each other, another tactic and another, battling to take the top and keep it until they crash into the end table with the oil lamp and laptop--
And Sam sits up, straddling Lindsey's hips with the bright grin of a hungry tiger. "Bed. No laptops will be harmed in the making of this fuck."
"Jackass," Lindsey snarls and shoves him hard in the chest but he's laughing underneath it.
"Sophist," Sam answers, pushing his hair out of his face with a flip of a leather-corded wrist.
"Love it when you talk dirty. Now get off me, Nephilim, or I won't be responsible for your precious technology." His hips lift into Sam's, grinding their bodies together in an argument that's way more effective than any verbalization.
Sam stands, Lindsey ignores the offer of his hand, and climbs up to brush past him with his open jeans already sliding down his hips on the way to the bedroom. Sam bodychecks him to the bed, then follows with a greedy groan that's met by eager hands raking worn denim off. Neither of them could give a 'flying fornication' whether the rivets and zippers leave scratches in his battle-scarred skin as long as sex happens soon, or better now.
* * *
An hour and a half later, Sam's fingers trace memorized mystic patterns over the hard swell of Lindsey's pec in the dark. His sweat-damp bangs stick to his forehead and his lips burn from keeping Lindsey pinned with his mouth. "You're still a petty tyrant."
"Giant pain in my ass--" Lindsey pauses over the nicknaming to curl his hand around the back of Sam's neck and haul him down for a different kind of kiss that Sam gives freely. "Argues for a different interpretation of events."
"Was that an admission against interest, Councilor?" Sam follows the teasing jibe with his lips and tongue over Lindsey's throat and down his chest, until Lindsey's fist stabs into his hair to haul his head up.
"It was an argument in the alternative, Sasquatch, now suck me off before I have to beat your ass again." He shoves Sam's head down and Sam repays it with a sharp nip to the incongrously soft inside of Lindsey's hipbone that dissolves into a long, slow moan and the roll of Lindsey's hips under his mouth.
"It was a confession," Sam counters as his fingers slide between Lindsey's thighs and back under his sac to emphasize the point with a probe of abused flesh. "And if it wasn't, I'll take one now." His tongue finds the rising welt on his hipbone, skim-slides, then his lips part to take Lindsey in.
Lindsey groans again, lifting into the suction, and that's all the confession Sam needs. They're connected, cross-referenced under 'demon-touched sophists' in the encyclopedia of Sam's mind, and, he'd bet in the archive files of Lindsey's.
* * *
Author's Note: This story is set in post-apocalyptic Gotham cut off from the rest of the universe. Characters come in from whatever point in their canons seems fitting. It's connected to, but mostly AU from the livejournal RP yo_gotham, which see. I don't think you need to know the game to understand what's happening here. ;)
Fandoms: Angel, SPN
Pairing: Sam/Lindsey
Rating: R
Warning: aggressive foreplay, sex
For: Mere de Vachon, because I owe her and I love her dearly.
In the slow, climbing heat of the loft at midnight, research by candlelight is less romantic than irritating. His gaze trips over a passage in Latin, notes in Hebrew, added marginalia in diagrams that look like Dean-does-Kabbalah. Sam glances at his laptop with a mental snarl of four syllable curses and philosophical Latin, then closes his eyes to try to call up the scans he can't cross-reference til tomorrow.
Blistering heat on his bicep snaps his eyes open - to near dark, punctuated by Lindsey in the glow of the final remaining candle, jaw set with determination, ink on his chest darker in the backlight. Rubbing the splash of candle wax off his arm, Sam narrows his gaze. "The hell?"
"You just told that book to sodomize itself on a donkey's dick. In Latin." There's a gleam of malicious glee in Lindsey's eyes and his smile's downright feral. Of course, because the intellectualizing of Sam's internal monologue came at the ends of Lindsey's fists and teeth; a quickly learned lesson that Lindsey didn't want the watered down version of him. "You're done."
"And you have a Napoleon complex." Pointedly, Sam finishes a line of notes on one of a case of battered legal pads they'd salvaged from the destroyed offices of Jones-Day Gotham.
More wax splatters on Sam's wrist and the blank part of the pad. Intentionally, Sam knows without needing to see the calculation in Lindsey's eyes when he flings out a hand and slams him back into the saddle-leather couch across the room. Setting the pad aside, he stalks toward Lindsey, struggling on his back under his telekinetic grasp. His vocabulary isn't the only thing that's improved from their sometimes volatile arrangement.
A blast of teke slams him in the back and sends him sprawling over Lindsey's heat-sticky chest and spread thighs. The sudden pitch dark from a mind-pinched candle, sharp pain in his throat and the heated slur of "said you were done" warn him his hold's broken seconds before they're rolling off the battered couch onto the furniture-gouged hardwood floor.
"Said you were bossy and short," Sam growls and twists out from under him, still rolling. The incongruous thought that Dean would be proud he's learning to fight rises and fades with the spark of a hot smile and his mouth crashing down over Lindsey's.
Giving away the advantage in the kiss, Lindsey snaps his legs up and around Sam, dragging him down and ducking his shoulder. Inked skin rakes across inked skin when they flip again, cursing and biting. They pit themselves against each other, another tactic and another, battling to take the top and keep it until they crash into the end table with the oil lamp and laptop--
And Sam sits up, straddling Lindsey's hips with the bright grin of a hungry tiger. "Bed. No laptops will be harmed in the making of this fuck."
"Jackass," Lindsey snarls and shoves him hard in the chest but he's laughing underneath it.
"Sophist," Sam answers, pushing his hair out of his face with a flip of a leather-corded wrist.
"Love it when you talk dirty. Now get off me, Nephilim, or I won't be responsible for your precious technology." His hips lift into Sam's, grinding their bodies together in an argument that's way more effective than any verbalization.
Sam stands, Lindsey ignores the offer of his hand, and climbs up to brush past him with his open jeans already sliding down his hips on the way to the bedroom. Sam bodychecks him to the bed, then follows with a greedy groan that's met by eager hands raking worn denim off. Neither of them could give a 'flying fornication' whether the rivets and zippers leave scratches in his battle-scarred skin as long as sex happens soon, or better now.
* * *
An hour and a half later, Sam's fingers trace memorized mystic patterns over the hard swell of Lindsey's pec in the dark. His sweat-damp bangs stick to his forehead and his lips burn from keeping Lindsey pinned with his mouth. "You're still a petty tyrant."
"Giant pain in my ass--" Lindsey pauses over the nicknaming to curl his hand around the back of Sam's neck and haul him down for a different kind of kiss that Sam gives freely. "Argues for a different interpretation of events."
"Was that an admission against interest, Councilor?" Sam follows the teasing jibe with his lips and tongue over Lindsey's throat and down his chest, until Lindsey's fist stabs into his hair to haul his head up.
"It was an argument in the alternative, Sasquatch, now suck me off before I have to beat your ass again." He shoves Sam's head down and Sam repays it with a sharp nip to the incongrously soft inside of Lindsey's hipbone that dissolves into a long, slow moan and the roll of Lindsey's hips under his mouth.
"It was a confession," Sam counters as his fingers slide between Lindsey's thighs and back under his sac to emphasize the point with a probe of abused flesh. "And if it wasn't, I'll take one now." His tongue finds the rising welt on his hipbone, skim-slides, then his lips part to take Lindsey in.
Lindsey groans again, lifting into the suction, and that's all the confession Sam needs. They're connected, cross-referenced under 'demon-touched sophists' in the encyclopedia of Sam's mind, and, he'd bet in the archive files of Lindsey's.
* * *
Author's Note: This story is set in post-apocalyptic Gotham cut off from the rest of the universe. Characters come in from whatever point in their canons seems fitting. It's connected to, but mostly AU from the livejournal RP yo_gotham, which see. I don't think you need to know the game to understand what's happening here. ;)