Angel and Lindsey
So ... tabaqui wrote an A/L ficlet last night. Sum of the Whole.
And me, being who I am ... couldn't let it go without, perhaps, seeing everything from *coughs* another point of view.
Angel wakes.
Rubbing one hand across his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes, from his mind. Rough fingers, calluses that will never leave him. Memories that never die and he refuses to dwell on what his subconscious creates. On dreams that leave the taste of warmth in his mouth. Of blood and life and … Lindsey.
The lawyer made his choice. He asked for help and Angel was there. He opened his heart and Angel was not. Too hurt, to many times before. Lindsey gave of himself and Angel turned it into a joke. Lindsey begged and Angel laughed and Lindsey asked and Angel denied and would he ever get the feel of that hot skin from under his fingers? The passion that ran in rivers of blood, the desire that quickened something inside of Angel that he couldn’t have, that he shouldn’t want.
Standing so close, talking about the case and Angel could still smell Lindsey in his office, on his desk. Could still feel the pain of the hurt Lindsey brought with him every time. The blue eyes that sparked with a fuck you and Darla and the Prophecy and Angel hadn’t meant to hurt him and yes … fuck yes … he had.
He wanted to hurt Lindsey with every fiber of his being. He wanted to taste his tears and feel that boy bend and break into a thousand pieces under him. Angel wanted to hear Lindsey beg and cry and then … perhaps then … he would have peace in the night.
Sledgehammers and trucks and fists. Everything but teeth and touching, caresses and skin. Snark and cutting words, arguments that went nowhere and the very air churned and boiled between them when they spoke. Angel had never met anyone like Lindsey in his life. Never met anyone that was as fearless, as depraved, as willing as Angelus to walk straight into Hell and demand a front seat for the show and perhaps that was it … that was the attraction.
Lindsey was Angelus in human form and Angel wanted him. Needed him. Hated him. Lusted after him and yes, yes, yes … loved him.
Sitting on the side of his bed in the dark of his room. His cock hard between his legs, desire moving smoothly through him and Angel wonders if Lindsey uses his prosthetic to get himself off. He wonders if Lindsey uses his other hand. He wonders if Lindsey thinks of him when he’s hard and alone and so full of anger and pain that he can’t breathe without gasping, that he can’t move without cramping.
Angel wonders if Lindsey dreams of him.
*wiggles with joy*
**licks you**
And me, being who I am ... couldn't let it go without, perhaps, seeing everything from *coughs* another point of view.
Angel wakes.
Rubbing one hand across his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes, from his mind. Rough fingers, calluses that will never leave him. Memories that never die and he refuses to dwell on what his subconscious creates. On dreams that leave the taste of warmth in his mouth. Of blood and life and … Lindsey.
The lawyer made his choice. He asked for help and Angel was there. He opened his heart and Angel was not. Too hurt, to many times before. Lindsey gave of himself and Angel turned it into a joke. Lindsey begged and Angel laughed and Lindsey asked and Angel denied and would he ever get the feel of that hot skin from under his fingers? The passion that ran in rivers of blood, the desire that quickened something inside of Angel that he couldn’t have, that he shouldn’t want.
Standing so close, talking about the case and Angel could still smell Lindsey in his office, on his desk. Could still feel the pain of the hurt Lindsey brought with him every time. The blue eyes that sparked with a fuck you and Darla and the Prophecy and Angel hadn’t meant to hurt him and yes … fuck yes … he had.
He wanted to hurt Lindsey with every fiber of his being. He wanted to taste his tears and feel that boy bend and break into a thousand pieces under him. Angel wanted to hear Lindsey beg and cry and then … perhaps then … he would have peace in the night.
Sledgehammers and trucks and fists. Everything but teeth and touching, caresses and skin. Snark and cutting words, arguments that went nowhere and the very air churned and boiled between them when they spoke. Angel had never met anyone like Lindsey in his life. Never met anyone that was as fearless, as depraved, as willing as Angelus to walk straight into Hell and demand a front seat for the show and perhaps that was it … that was the attraction.
Lindsey was Angelus in human form and Angel wanted him. Needed him. Hated him. Lusted after him and yes, yes, yes … loved him.
Sitting on the side of his bed in the dark of his room. His cock hard between his legs, desire moving smoothly through him and Angel wonders if Lindsey uses his prosthetic to get himself off. He wonders if Lindsey uses his other hand. He wonders if Lindsey thinks of him when he’s hard and alone and so full of anger and pain that he can’t breathe without gasping, that he can’t move without cramping.
Angel wonders if Lindsey dreams of him.
*wiggles with joy*
**licks you**