TITLE: Worse Things To Lose
AUTHOR: Ice and eyesdarker
CONTACT: ice001nz@yahoo.com, eyesdarker@operamail.com
SUMMARY: Lindsey has some ‘alone’ time with Angel.
SPOILERS: The Trial
PAIRING: Angel/Lindsey
RATING: NC-17
DISCLAIMER: These boys don’t belong to us and if they
did they’d be exhausted. Praise be to David Greenwalt
and Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy, yada yada yada.
DISTRIBUTION: Soon to be archived at
http://www.obsessedmuch.net/elegant_slumming. Anyone
else please ask first.
FEEDBACK: Of course! We are ho’s for the feedback...
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Ice: thanks to Paul for the incredible patience he’s
shown the last few weeks with my hermit status and
constant demands on the computer and to the lovely
Zahra for just being her. Mostly though I want to
thank my darling eyesdarker who is my hero, an
absolute rock and ‘gives more support than a
wonderbra.’ (trademark: Z) Also a big smooch to Lar
and Kass, the SC posse, I wouldn’t have made it
through without you two...
eyesdarker: One: Cheers, Kass-mate. Never could've
without you. End of.
Two: Thank you, Ice, both for letting me write with
you and for being the person that you are
Three: This one's for The Alpha.
*******************************************************
“You two, leave now. Take Drusilla wherever she wants
to go. Bill, Fred, you wait outside for me.” Lindsey's
voice barely rises above its normal husky purr, but
the edge of command in it ensures he is obeyed
immediately.
Dru claps her hands excitedly and squeals “Yes, yes,
we must go, must make Grandmummy all new again...”
Angel's body rings with pain and seethes with
unaccustomed heat. How strange he should have Lindsey
McDonald to thank for having warm hands for the first
time in two centuries.
The pain in his body is nothing compared to his mental
anguish. The agony when, kneeling prayer-like, he
watched as Dru bit into Darla. Watched as Dru's throat
rhythmically contracted as she swallowed mouthfuls of
blood. He felt his mouth watering with blood-need at
the same time as he tried not to give Lindsey the
satisfaction of seeing him cry.
Helpless.
It’s not a feeling he’s used to. He isn’t the
helpless, he’s the helper, the ‘guardian of the
hapless human race.’ There are so few times he hasn’t
been in control, when he has been the victim of
circumstance. When Buffy drove that sword through him
and sent him to hell; when Doyle, his kindred spirit,
sacrificed himself; the time that he couldn’t save
Buffy because of his lack of humanity, and now, Darla.
Angel refused to help her when she needed him, then
after that he was powerless to help her anyway. Went
through so much to try and give her a new life but
that wasn’t enough and she was denied her chance to
redeem herself. At that moment, Darla had accepted
what was going to happen to her, that she was dying
and knew that she needed to try and make up for what
she’d done in the past. Angel felt she deserved a
chance at that, deserved more than the ending she got
in this decrepit motel room.
He has much regret. Regret that he didn’t turn Darla
himself, regret that he took her to Caritas and regret
for listening to green-skinned demons when he should
know better. It's not the first time The Host has put
him in danger, after all.
Angel knew that he would have been able to protect her
from what happened here if he hadn’t have been so
damned drained from the ‘trials’. His vamp senses
should have picked up the guards before they kicked
the door in, but he was just too tired. All he was
aware of at that point was the tazer pressed into his
back ready to bite again. Angel's body a flawed
crystal, shot through with fault-lines of exhaustion.
It felt like one more blow or jolt of electricity and
he would shatter into countless irreparable pieces.
He felt the hard floor under him as he blacked out
from the sheer intensity of it all and the last thing
he remembered before darkness claimed him was Dru
grinning, kissing him on the forehead and whispering
in his ear.
“What about Daddy? Can I take him, too?” Barely
conscious, mind hardly registering the words, all
sounds like white noise, but he’d recognise that voice
anywhere.
“No, Dru.” He hears the forced composure in Lindsey’s
voice. Angel knows that the childish singsong of Dru
must irritate the fuck out of Lindsey and that fact
makes him smile a little through the pain.
//Couldn’t happen to a nicer person.//
“Just you and Darla, Dru. Your daddy and I have some
things to talk about, ‘kay?”
And now Dru’s starting with the whining. Angel
remembers it well, doesn’t even need to see her to
know what’s going on. She’s pouting, bottom lip
extended, being childish in that annoying way she
specialises in.
Angel snaps back to the present as he hears hard,
heavy footsteps. Lindsey walks over and stops in front
of him. Angel's eyes travel from expensive shoes, over
expensive clothes, top shirt button undone and tie
missing //Not Friday, is it?// Angel’s confused at the
casualness of Lindsey, not used to seeing him like
this. His vision carries on up to Lindsey's face, the
face that Angel always thinks is the epitome of what a
Childe should look like. Lindsey in so many ways an
all-too-vivid reminder of Spike. That headstrong
wilfulness combined with potent sexual energy. Those
clear, sunlit blue eyes balanced against the ruthless
twist of the sensitive mouth.
Vision in many ways the least powerful of Angel's
senses. He inhales, willing his sense of smell to pick
up all the nuances in the air, to warn him of what
will happen next. The smell of blood is so strong in
the air that Angel feels dizzy, the world blacks out
around him briefly as he is forced to admit how he
would give anything, sell his soul with pleasure, at
that instant, just to be able to fill his mouth with
the warm metallic, smooth-like-a-good-wine seduction
of blood. He smells fear (his own, not Darla's) and
the flat tone of indifference left behind by the
guards. Above all, he smells that scent he inhales
every time he's near Lindsey; Lindsey’s arousal, the
aroma of want, of need, that he so successfully -
outwardly - hides.
He hates the fact that Lindsey has so much power over
him. Always has, he never fails to make Angel lose
control. He’s consistently stoic, calm even when he’s
angry, but Lindsey? He brings the demon to the surface
all right. Angel knows damned well he’s always so
precariously balanced between soul and demon: could
snap at any time and with Lindsey he’s all the more
likely to.
Angel looks at Lindsey's face again. He sees the
pupils in the eyes expanded, leaving only the narrow
ring of summer sky around them. He hears Lindsey
breathing, harsh and loud, in the empty room. Notes
Lindsey's gaze, fixed, fascinated, on Angel's own
heaving chest. Angel tries for a little control,
speaks, his voice sounding strained and tense: “What's
the matter, Lindsey, never seen a man breathe before?”
Lindsey's voice so soft and husky, Angel has to strain
to catch it. Lindsey's Oakie accent to the fore in
this moment of high tension, no-one around to pretend
to.
“You're…” starts again, slightly louder. “You're not a
man. You like to forget that sometimes, though, right?
Oh, except when you’re stranglin’ me or cuttin' my
hand off, then ‘demon’ suits you just fine.”
Angel feels pain, heat and grinding, aching tiredness.
“No, Lindsey, I hadn't forgotten.”
Sees Lindsey's soft mouth twist harshly; he wonders
just how much this complicated man would really care
one way or the other if he was human or demon. He
tries to marry the ruthlessness Lindsey shows with the
obvious love he feels for Darla with the desire so
heavy in the air. Desire so strong that Angel feels
himself giving in to it, almost becoming aroused,
hates himself for it.
All the times he’s been alone with Lindsey and it
never changes, intense anger and hate between them so
inextricably linked to lust, almost can’t separate it.
Lindsey's startling beauty and his dominant nature
make Angel want to do something, anything, but to keep
doing it, whatever it is. It's always the same, Angel
can never decide which he wants more: to kiss Lindsey
or to kill him.
The scent of desire is intoxicating, permeating
through not only the room, but also through Angel's
entire being and right now, he’s picturing the kiss so
easily, so vividly. He’d grab the lawyer by the hair,
so tight that it hurts, thrusting his tongue into the
warm mouth, hips tilting slowly forward, hard bodies
grinding against each other, groin to groin... His
hands twist painfully and he knows he’s done it again,
been carried away by the idea, the fantasy of that
strong, compact body, those full lips submitting to
his. But it’s not Lindsey on his knees with his hands
tied behind his back now.
He sees Lindsey staring intently at him. Soft voice
asks, “So, like I said, how did you think this would
end?”
Angel shrugs, or as near as he can to a shrug when his
hands are tied tightly behind his back, “Don't know,
don't care” he says. “All I know is you, I and the
rest of the planet are going to have to live with the
consequences. And they won't be pretty, Lindsey. She's
not going to come running after you. Probably eat you
the first time she sees you.”
Pain explodes across Angel's face like a firework. He
feels an initial bright flare then floating rivulets
of pain across his cheek, his lips, little sparkles of
pain running down into shoulder muscles locked hard
with the strain of this awful day. Lindsey's right on
the edge, then. Now if he could just be persuaded to
untie these bonds… “Whas'matter, Lindsey, don't have
the courage to hit me when my hands are untied?”
Sardonic raise of eyebrow, uptwist of split lips to
drive the point home.
Angel always slips into old habits when Lindsey is
around. That look on Angel’s face, the arrogance and
style of speech are all Angelus right to the core,
pure demon through and through. Almost like Lindsey
wills him to change. Angel knows for sure that that’s
what Wolfram and Hart want, but also knows that their
favoured son has an agenda all of his own as well. He
can smell it on him, unmistakable scents of envy, hate
and desire.
“Nothing to do with your hands.” Once again, the warm,
rough sound. Sometimes Angel thinks he just fights
with Lindsey for the pleasure of hearing the curves in
the vowels and the soft, silk-skirt shush of the
voice. “Just don' talk about Darla. I did what I had
to do. What *you* should have done.” Angel feels the
sting of jealousy, resentment that Lindsey had to be
the one to help her, that Dru had to be the one to
turn his sire and that he had to sit redundantly by
and watch, when once upon a time he would have been
the one to help, he would’ve done anything for her. He
may not have been capable of love then, but he fucking
well knew what duty and responsibility felt like, and
he would have done everything in his power to save
her, rescue her from the Wolfram-and-Hart-imposed hell
that she was in.
Angel feels a sudden soft touch on his chin, looks
down to see Lindsey's finger stroking over the
stubble, following a trail of blood up Angel's face to
his split lip. Sees Lindsey put the blood-covered
finger in his mouth, clear straight brows drawn
together in concentration as he tastes Angel's blood.
Lindsey looks for all the world as though he's at a
wine tasting.
“Always wondered what all the fuss was about.”
Lindsey's voice barely above a whisper. “Now I know.
Don' seem worth dyin' for. And would you care to tell
me how I'm supposed to untie you with one hand?”
Angel shakes his head, tries to clear the bloodlust,
to erase the fantasy of smearing blood all over
Lindsey's body and licking it off before he drained
the lawyer. “Find something sharp. You go on all these
management-training problem-solving courses, don't
you? Improvise.” He feels something sharp against his
wrist, Lindsey being none-too-careful what he cuts
along with the bindings.
Angel stands, turns, drives forward from the shoulder.
He feels his knuckles sting as they connect with the
bone of Lindsey's jaw-line. More blood. Grabs Lindsey
by the throat, satisfying squeeze of the carotid
artery. Angel can feel Lindsey's blood throbbing under
his fingers. Uses his other hand to smear the blood
from Lindsey's face in a long trail over his
cheekbones up toward his eyes. Lindsey struggles to
breathe, one – and only one – hand trying to pull
Angel's fingers away from his neck.
Breathing is definitely an issue here for Lindsey, and
this is all too familiar. Lindsey finds himself
wondering (again) just what it is that makes Angel
want to strangle him, //always with the choking, maybe
he gets off on auto-strangulation or something?//
laughs as much as he can in this constricted state and
looks Angel straight in the eyes.
Lindsey inhales painfully, then all thoughts of
breathing are dismissed as he feels a cool wetness on
his face, realises that Angel is slowly, gently,
licking the blood from him. He feels Angel's tongue
trailing up from jaw-line, over the roughness of
stubble (only this morning when he shaved, seems a lot
longer than that), up over his cheekbone, stopping on
the soft skin beside his eye, Angel's nose nuzzling
his hair.
Moving is not an option, despite Angel's loosened grip
on his throat. All Lindsey's senses are concentrated
on the nearness of Angel, the intensity of the moment.
He hears Angel breathing needlessly, close to his ear.
He’s so close that Lindsey, even with his blunt human
senses, can smell masculine sweat, the metallic note
of blood and the childish, primary-colour brightness
of the hair-gel Angel uses. He can taste more blood,
his own and wonders how long it will be before Angel
tries to start feeding off him rather than just
licking the blood off. Lindsey can't see anything,
because he's got his eyes closed, savouring the moment
with a guilty pleasure.
Lindsey knows he never admits to himself how much he
desires Angel, not even on the long nights in, with
his old friend Jack D. Those nights when he always
ends up sprawled on his bed, hand moving slowly down,
inside his boxers, slow strokes bringing him to the
edge. He can never confess the fact that it isn’t
blonde hair, willowy frame and breathy voice that
wills him to orgasm, but dark, dark eyes, upturned
mouth and big, hard hands. Always Angel’s name he
utters in his mind as he comes, gasping. He would
never dare say it out loud because that would seal it,
would force him to admit that he wants it, craves it
and that he has his own agenda for being here right
now. Wolfram and Hart’s grand plan isn’t the reason
why he wanted to see how Angel looked on his knees,
wrists bound behind his back, shirt pulled down, neck
bared, picture of total submission, making him harder
than he’s ever been in his life. He shakes off the
image as he feels Angel's skin against his own. Didn't
expect velvet-soft lips and silky cool skin, but here
they are.
Angel's hand is moving now, away from Lindsey's
throat, sliding down his back. Lindsey can feel the
calluses on them through his thin shirt. At least
Angel still has two hands. Lindsey breaks the moment,
raises his plastic hand to touch Angel's face, sees
the vampire, startled fractionally by the alien touch,
move away from him. Lindsey stands, still as Darla
when Dru was draining her, looks at the
whiter-than-bone face of Angel, and speaks harshly.
“So, first you hit me, then you try to strangle me,
then you lick my face. Got some interesting kinks
going there. And incidentally, since you ask, yes I
have got the courage to hit you when your hands are
untied.” Moves as he speaks, left hand driving hard
into Angel's body. Disturbed by the hardness of muscle
under his punch, moves to hit again and is intrigued
to find the world suddenly shaken as Angel grabs him,
hits, hits again. Seems like he can't stop and Lindsey
starts to feel like a field-mouse caught in the jaws
of a wild-cat: floppy and powerless to resist at the
moment, damn sure to become torn and broken if he
doesn't do something quickly. Looks at Angel, sees the
soft, dark eyes, normally so warm, shining cold and
hard. Angel's eyes are obsidian discs ,all the more
startling set against the pallor of his face.
Lindsey feels pain everywhere. Sharp sting of soreness
when Angel hits him, dulling down into grinding ache.
It wouldn't be so bad if it was just one place, but
Angel has hit him so many times his whole body aches.
Gotta stop. He knows he's not as strong as Angel, so
uses his favourite weapon. “Hey, you always go onto
auto-pilot when you hit someone? Kinda figured I
deserved more personal attention.” He has the
satisfaction of seeing Angel's eyes soften as he snaps
back from whatever hell he was in, stops with his fist
an inch away from Lindsey's body. Lindsey is suddenly
aware of the depth of silence in the room. No sound
apart from his breathing (expected) and Angel's
breathing (unexpected, he'd never known the guy to
breathe before tonight).
Lindsey lies back on the floor: it's hard, but at
least it isn't hitting him.
Lindsey closes his eyes, feeling the pain wash through
him. It seems good to feel something, even if pain
isn't exactly the drug of choice for him. He knows he
can't stay like this forever, so gets up, ignores the
slow burning of damaged joints and the sharp flare of
bruised muscles, and moves to stand in front of Angel.
Lindsey uses the rarely-spoken name, the one he says
at night in his traitorous dreams: “Angel.” Clears his
throat, tries again with the volume switched on.
“Angel. Look at me.” He sees the head move up, tense
dark eyes looking straight at his own. “Angel, I want
to get one thing straight between us. No way was Darla
going to die of some historic disease, not when I had
a way to save her.”
He hears Angel reply, his normally confident voice so
low that Lindsey has to struggle to catch the words.
He doesn't believe those words when he hears them ,
anyway. “It's not her you want to fuck, though, is it
Lindsey?”
The unspoken “It's me, not Darla” is so loud in
Lindsey's head that it takes him a moment to realise
that Angel hasn't actually said it out loud. And woah,
deja vu here. He remembers Darla’s breathy voice
accusing him of the same thing //It’s nice, but it’s
not me you want to screw...// Lindsey recalls the
utter revulsion running through his body when she said
those words to him. Disgust, because he knew that
she'd spoken the truth. He felt frustration with
himself for allowing Angel to affect him so much, and
shame that he’d been caught out, been caught with his
hand in the cookie jar. Right now what he’s feeling is
all too similar. Lindsey feels his whole body flush:
chest, neck, face all burning like a kid trying to ask
his first date out. The heat is quickly followed by
chill, so he stands there, body ice and brain frozen
as he struggles to think what to do, what to say next.
He’s in total panic mode now, can’t allow the vampire
to control him like this, to read his innermost
thoughts. He's not willing to let the balance of power
shift just because Angel makes him hard.
“Even if that was true, and Ah…*I* would say you have
no proof” accent so strong he could be a fucking
redneck.
Lindsey can't even control his voice now and he
mentally kicks himself for that. He is used to being
able to neutralise the vowels whenever he wants, so
that he doesn’t sound like a hick from Bumfuck,
Nowhere but this is yet another example of the way
that Angel disturbs the extreme discipline that
Lindsey has built up over the years. He must regain
his composure. It is, after all, the only thing that
stands between him and total loss of control. Angel
interrupts, his voice so flat it sounds like he's
taking great care to keep all, any, emotions out of
it. “I have a sense of smell, Lindsey. A good one.
That's all I need to figure out how you feel about
me.”
“And that makes you feel good, dunnit? You may have
noticed that I have chosen to take no action on the
subject. And I may not have your sense of smell, but
I'm inclined to say that we're talkin' more than
neutrality on your part, too.” Lindsey sees Angel's
already pale face blanch, his eyes widen and he hears
the sharp indrawing of unnecessary breath.
Angel stands up, so that Lindsey is forced to look up
at him if he wants to maintain eye-contact.
“You…appeal to me.” says Angel, stiffly. Appeal. Good
old-fashioned word there. “And your lip's still
bleeding.” adds Angel, inconsequentially. Lindsey
half-smiles, ignoring the bright flare of pain from
the split lip. He strokes his finger over his own
face, loads it up with blood, an artist getting the
paint on his brush ready to apply to the masterwork.
Slowly moves his hand, feeling the coolness of the air
on his wet finger and watches Angel's eyes as they
track his hand. Lindsey is convinced that the world
could end at that moment and Angel wouldn't notice and
he relishes the fact that he’s not the only one
dangerously close to losing control here. Lindsey
decides to push it just as hard as he can, almost a
dare to himself to see just how far he can go with
Angel, push him too far and watch, wait for the
fallout. He slides his finger between cool,
surprisingly-soft lips into the wetness of Angel's
mouth. Feels Angel's tongue softly, slowly licking his
finger, sliding over the nail and down towards his
hand. There is a wholly unexpected moment when Angel's
own hand comes up, pulls Lindsey's finger from his
mouth, guides Lindsey's hand flat over his face and
uses those soft lips to oh-so-gently kiss the palm of
Lindsey's hand.
Lindsey moves his hand slightly, stroking it against
Angel's lips. Smiles to himself, keeps the smirk off
his face, as he sees Angel start guiltily and drop his
hand, head whipping quickly away from Lindsey in what?
Shame? Embarrassment? He moves his hand up to Angel’s
chin, turns him slowly so that they’re face to face
again. Lindsey is so very pleased with himself, he has
his breathing under control and his accent on a tight
rein. He looks at Angel's blanched face, hears his
slow, strained breathing and decides that Angel is
probably the one with the control problem at the
moment.
“So, I *appeal* to you” says Lindsey softly. Not too
obvious here, gotta push the guy. “And you're right
about you.” He probably likes them sub, so Lindsey
tries the old 'look at the floor, long eyelashes
against the tanned skin' trick. Looks up and sees
Angel's gaze fixed on his face.
“I mean…” says Lindsey, with just the right degree of
hesitation, the lawyer certainly knows how to draw his
audience in (it’s all in the timing and Lindsey has
that timing down to a fine art) “…that I am attracted
to you, you knew that.” He sees Angel swallow hard,
muscles tightening along his jaw line. “That's
something I just have to live with, to cope with.”
Allows himself a slight, regretful smile. Angel
stands, waiting (as far as Lindsey can see) to be told
what to do next.
And this makes Lindsey harder than he believed
possible. The idea of Angel: big, strong, alphavamp,
being told what to do, being the led not the leader
just gets Lindsey right there. It also means that
Angel’s control is almost completely gone, nothing
stopping the darkness from taking over: and that is
pretty much the point of this entire exercise. Lindsey
wonders if Angel has any idea just what the firm will
do to bring him over to their side, if Angel even
realises that that is the entire point. Wonders if
Angel realises that the point of turning Darla was not
for her to be a weapon to use *against* him but more
as a catalyst to make him realise just what he was
missing out on. Wolfram and Hart underestimated his
resolve, his need for redemption so greatly, but
Lindsey never did. He knows Angel, knows his urges
like they are his own and that makes him so much
easier to control.
Lindsey inhales. Even he can smell blood in the air
and he wonders what it is doing to Angel. Just gotta
keep pushing. “But you do understand…” lets the vowels
soften to Southern just a touch “Angel, I had to do
what I thought was right. Now I, well, I don' really
know what to do.” Lindsey moves his prosthetic hand
out of sight, stands half-turned towards Angel, left
hand slightly outstretched with the palm turned
upwards in supplication. “And this attraction to you,
I can't…” deliberately lets his voice trail away. He
watches as Angel steps towards him, concern on his
face.
He strokes Angel’s cheek just the once as the vampire
grabs his hand, throws it down, “I can’t. I can’t do
this Lindsey.”
“Can’t do what?” And now he’s grinning outwardly,
knows that he’s pretty much got Angel right where he
wants him, a little bit further and he’s going to lose
control. Knows that all he needs now is timing, a few
well-thought-out phrases and the good old Lindsey
McDonald charm.
Lindsey moves in closer, just like a predator, and
yes, he knows Angel could snap his neck before he even
has a chance to blink. That’s all part of the
challenge, though and that, added on top of the deep
brown eyes, full mouth and the hard body, just makes
it all the much sweeter. They are so close now that
Angel can feel him breathe and he’s whispering,
purring almost into Angel’s ear, “Now, come on, Angel.
Didn’t anyone ever tell you there’s
no.such.word.as.can’t.” Each word punctuated by
Lindsey’s tongue licking Angel’s neck.
Unbearably aroused now, Angel moves in towards
Lindsey, his mind blurry with the richness of the
aromas in the air. The blood-scent is so thick he can
almost taste it, Darla's spiciness overlaid with the
smoky tang of Lindsey's blood. He looks at the man
standing in front of him: beautiful face, eyes three
shades lighter than the blood-filled blue vein pumping
under the golden skin of Lindsey's neck.
Angel stands close to Lindsey, who hasn't moved a
muscle while Angel approached him. Lindsey, who smells
of need and desire and harsh, raw lust. Angel's
fragile hold over the demon is slipping and he's
losing his grip; losing his battle with the darkness
inside him.
The funny thing is that people think that the only
time Angelus controls him is when the curse fails,
when he loses the soul. That fact couldn’t be further
from the truth, the struggle inside him is always
raging, and he’s lost count of the number of times
he’s been tempted by the people that give him their
trust. When he's fighting alongside his ‘crew’, it’s
inevitable that someone gets injured and when they
bleed the temptation is unimaginable, demon in him
screaming to just end the pretence right now, tear
their throats out, asking him isn’t he just so fucking
tired of it? Wouldn’t he just rather give in? And
Angel knows the truth is yes, he is so very, very
tired.
Angel's tenuous grasp on control made all the more
tenuous by the man standing in front of him right now.
He tries to justify to himself that if he does it just
once, kisses him, then he’ll feel nothing. He’ll be
able to prove to himself that he doesn’t need this:
that his desire for Lindsey isn’t that strong and
certainly not enough to make him stray from that
righteous path he’s travelling along. He knows that
he’s fooling himself though. He’s well aware that he
is not righteous. That the reason he wants to kiss
Lindsey is not some test to see how virtuous he is,
but rather nothing more than complete and utter lust,
a desire to taste Lindsey to just grab him and lick at
those lips. To thrust his tongue in and taste, savour
everything he’s been trying so hard to fight all this
time.
Angel reaches forward, runs his fingers through
Lindsey's hair, feels the smooth coolness of it. He
leans forward to inhale its clean fragrance, a faint
scent of rosemary and inconsequentially remembers how,
in eighteen-seventy something, he heard the phrase
'rosemary for remembrance'. He doesn't think he’ll
forget Lindsey anytime soon.
Sick of denying what he feels, knows that once he does
this there’s no going back, Angel bends his head down
to Lindsey's face. Glimpses pouting, parted lips that
need to be kissed and to hell with the consequences.
Lindsey watches him moving in, and he’s pretty sure
he’s won already, knows that very soon Angel’s going
to be past that point where he can distinguish good
from bad, dark from light, Angel from Angelus, and
this makes Lindsey feel more triumphant than he’s ever
been in his life. Knowing that it was his actions that
facilitated the decline and his body that is the
source of the temptation really does make all the hard
work worth it.
Lindsey feels Angel's lips against his own, slides his
tongue forward to taste the cool unfamiliarity of
Angel's mouth. His tongue meets sudden sharpness and
he realises that Angel has vamped out: not something
he expected this early on in the proceedings. Lindsey
pulls away slightly, although with Angel's hands on
his shoulders, there is a limit to how far he can
move. He sees the heavy brow ridges, sees the eyes
glittering, sees obsidian has been replaced by topaz.
Lindsey asks, hesitantly, innocently: “You okay?”
He is rewarded by a feral grin. “I'm okay, Lindsey,
I'm more than okay.”
Lindsey moves his plastic hand up, guides it
delicately across Angel's fangs and is rewarded by a
gasp as blade-sharp teeth cut a groove through the
plastic. “Scarred for life” grins Lindsey, smiling
straight into the glowing eyes.
“Yeah” says Angel, his voice notably deeper than its
normal midrange pitch. “Yeah, you will be, Lindsey.”
And doesn’t that make Lindsey want this all the more?
Uncontrollable shivers course through his body as he
anticipates, waits desperately to see whether Angel
will carry through on that threat. He wonders what it
would be like to be scarred by the vampire, branded
and claimed, and he knows he’s supposed to be the one
with all the power here, but he’d be lying if he said
that he hasn’t thought, dreamed about this happening
to him every single night. Angel grabbing him, tilting
his head back, teeth piercing his flesh and Lindsey
not struggling, just watching, listening as he is
savoured by that mouth, drained, and then fucked
brutally, relentlessly until he comes screaming
Angel’s name before he lapses into unconsciousness.
Lindsey reaches up with the non-plastic hand, pulls
Angel's? Angelus's? head down towards his own. He is
surprised to see the features soften and de-vamp.
“Why?” Lindsey asks, “I’m not afraid of you.”
Angel just shakes his head. “You’re really not, are
you, Lindsey? You should be.”
Angel's eyes drift closed, and his mouth is…well, in
the interests of accuracy, Lindsey couldn't exactly
call it a pout, but there is a definite kissing-need
on the normally tense face. Lindsey might even hazard
the word 'longing'. He feels the short, rough hairs at
the back of Angel's neck; unhurriedly runs his tongue
over the other man's lips, listening to the sigh from
Angel as his lips part. Lindsey’s tongue feels the
cool wetness of Angel’s mouth. He leans against Angel,
concentrating wholly on the kiss: moulding his lips
against the slowly-moving mouth; tongue gently
stroking against Angel’s. Lindsey is savouring this,
kissing him dreamily, just allowing himself to give
into the intensity. Lindsey pulls Angel in hard, hand
on the back of his head, then tilts his hips forward,
letting his aching-to-be-touched cock just graze
against Angel’s.
Angel feels as though he's had all the blocks to
sensory input removed from his body. He feels *alive*
with Lindsey, right now. His sight is filled by a blur
of gold and smoky blue. He can hear Lindsey's faint,
reluctant whimpering (torn from him, Angel thinks) as
the kiss gets deeper and deeper. He can taste Lindsey
in both their mouths. He moves his hand down over
Lindsey's back, feels the heavy, tense muscles there.
Face so close to Lindsey, he can smell all his scents
at once. There is the faintest tinge of sun-burned
skin, the rosemary, some exotic expensive after-shave,
the primitive, animal-like intensity of Lindsey's
desire, so unlike the vanilla-based floral notes of
Buffy's schoolgirl arousal.
Angel finds himself holding Lindsey tighter and
tighter, pushing against him with every part of his
body that he can, as they kiss, kiss, breathe: dead
Angel breathing as hard as the living Lindsey. Angel
pulls back and breaks the kiss for just a moment.
Lindsey’s mouth is looking utterly fuckable right now,
lips swollen and wet, kiss-bruised and bleeding
slightly. Lindsey’s panting with sheer need and the
sight of this, of Lindsey so utterly wanton, calls to
the very urge he struggles to repress every single
day. Angel just wants to grab him by the hair, tilt
his head back and sink his fangs into Lindsey’s neck
and drink and drink until there’s nothing left. Knows
that he can’t allow that because if he does, his demon
will have complete control. Pushes that urge back down
where it belongs and gets himself another taste of
that mouth instead. He grips the back of Lindsey’s
neck, touches and tastes as much as he can, getting
high on the smell and taste of Lindsey’s blood, his
arousal and the sheer heat of it all.
Time to up the pace a bit, thinks Lindsey, start
playing a few riffs on the basic theme. Angel's
arousal is sufficient – minimally – for Wolfram and
Hart's purposes, but Lindsey has his own agenda. He
unbuttons Angel's shirt, slides his hand over broad,
deep chest muscle and strokes once, twice, with
featherlight touches over Angel's rigidly erect
nipple. Squeezes it between thumb and forefinger:
never fucked a man who didn't get off on being played
with like this just as much as any girl. He strokes,
squeezes, feels Angel's tongue start to move faster
against his own. He breaks the kiss, moves his head
down to Angel's chest and licks one nipple. Sucks,
gently bites and pulls rhythmically at it with his
lips. Angel's hand clenches painfully in his hair.
Lindsey looks up briefly, sees Angel has vamped out
again and isn't surprised by that this time. What does
surprise him is when he's grabbed, pulled away from
Angel's chest and thrown unceremoniously on the floor.
No sooner does he hit the ground than Angel is on top
of him, kissing Lindsey with a violent abandon. The
weight of Angel on top of him makes it hard for
Lindsey to move, but he kisses Angel with all the
intensity he can.
Angel lowers his head to Lindsey's neck, slowly slide
his tongue up over the sunburned silk of Lindsey's
neck. Angel inhales, taking in the scents. Lindsey's
lust, need and thirst for power, along with his innate
humanity make such a heady combination that it calls
to every need Angel has, demonic and human.
Feels unreal to Angel, feels like someone else is
doing these things as he looks down at his own white
hands, undressing Lindsey. He feels the texture of
cold metal under his fingers, hears the shush of
leather on metal as he undoes Lindsey's belt buckle.
Angel smells the incongruous mixture of sexual arousal
from the pre-come already apparent on Lindsey's
shorts, combined with the clean-washing smell of the
shorts themselves. Angel can hardly believe it is him,
himself, touching Lindsey...doesn't want to examine
the feeling too closely in case it stops.
He sees himself touching Lindsey, feeling the heat of
Lindsey's cock, like putting his hand through the tip
of a candle flame, hot enough to heat him almost
unbearably, but not to burn. He touches Lindsey's
cock, skin so smooth he can hardly feel it. Inhales
the sweet with a bitter edge scent of Lindsey's
arousal. Strokes the softness, feels the
rigidity...blood-filled, throbbing rigidity under the
hot, silky skin.
Lindsey knows he's getting too aroused to control the
situation for much longer, the world drifting away and
only Angel, Angel, Angel existing for him, overloading
all his senses and blurring his mind. Lindsey feels
Angel's coolness like an ice-burn against his own
heat. Lindsey shuts his eyes, does need them, all the
other senses on overload already. He can still taste
the unfamiliar Angel-flavour of their kisses, and he
can smell the need in the air, smell his own pre-come,
smell the meat mixed with metal scent of all the blood
in the air. His sense of touch is wholly concentrated
on Angel's hand. Callused skin slides over the ridges
on his cock as Angel's hand
moves, oh-so-gently, far too gently, up and down over
him.
The world starts to blur for Lindsey into a haze of
Angel-need, and unbearable arousal with someone who
knows exactly how to please him unbearably well. Hand
round his cock is the only thing he can feel, all
thought obliterated as the hand holds tighter, strokes
nearly fast enough. Lindsey focuses right down onto
the callous on Angel's index finger, middle joint,
which is pressing on the ridge of his cock-head every
time Angel slides his hand over it. And the arousal of
being stroked by the battle-hardened hand is too much
to bear.
Comes down from the edge and opens his eyes to see
Angel lifting his hand to his mouth and
licking his index finger very slowly, sliding it in
and out of his mouth, watching Lindsey the whole time.
"So sweet, Lindsey, always knew you would be." Voice
broken with lust and smile on his face, upturned
mouth, so unlike the Angel he knows.
Lindsey's mind is abruptly taken away from his own
pleasure. He sees Angels' hand move, still with
Lindsey's own viscous white semen on it. Lindsey feels
Angel roughly shove his hand between Lindsey's
buttocks, a half-hearted attempt at lubrication. Then
pain obliterates all thoughts as Lindsey finds himself
face-down and his body entered, penetrated, fucked by
Angel's hardness, his unexpectedly hot cock burning
its way into Lindsey's body.
And that's no big deal, not exactly the first time
he's had his face ground into cheap carpet while his
muscles struggle to take the weight of another man's
body and his world explodes in pain, but this time is
different. The last thing Lindsey expected was to be
stung by a wasp. A wasp? Two wasps? About two inches
apart? The pain from Angel's uncaring thrusting
recedes as Lindsey tries to concentrate, to work out
what is going on. Then he realises, this is what being
bitten feels like and Angel's fangs are deep into his
trapezius muscle. He feels the sucking start, a slow,
rhythmic intensity pulling the blood from him, feels
its heat slide out of him through the burning
pinpoints of the fangs.
Lindsey's hardly aware of his own hands clenching into
fists, of his face, carpet-burned and sore,
moving into a grin of triumph so wide his face-muscles
ache. He rides out Angel thrusting almost on
auto-pilot and feels, not orgasmic, better than
orgasmic, feels glowing, hot, sparkling triumph fill
his world. This is what winning the important ones
tastes like and it is far too long since he's tasted
that flavour.
Angel's coming is almost irrelevant for Lindsey, he
feels the vampire thrust harder and harder, grinding
his hips against Lindsey's back, tearing into his body
with the hardness of his cock. Pain just heightens
Lindsey's excitement now, mean's Angel's totally lost
control. Lindsey feels Angel shudder with the hardness
of his coming, feels the fangs at his neck suddenly
dig deeper before abruptly withdrawing: an exit more
sensual, leaving more emptiness than any mere sexual
withdrawal. Lindsey, slides painfully out from under
Angel, whistles, pull up his pants, (ignoring blood
and pain as he does so) but also in order to be well
clear of the tazers firing full charge carried by the
two Wolfram and Hart guards who have come running at
his whistle from their station outside the door.
“Wait.” Lindsey orders them, stilling them with one
hand as he walks back over and drops to his knees next
to the semi-naked vampire, mouth practically on his
ear as he speaks so softly, so huskily, that only
Angel’s hyper-acute hearing can pick up the words.
“Thank you.” Tongue softly licking all the way up
Angel's neck as the vampire does his best to pull
away, looking up at Lindsey in disgust.
Angel can clearly hear the arrogance in the lawyer’s
voice and it’s a reminder of exactly what went on here
tonight, what Angel can see every time he closes his
eyes, a stark reminder that tonight he lost so much.
Lost Darla, lost control, lost his ability to see
clearly. He allowed Lindsey to control the situation
and he reverted to his old behaviour, allowed the
demon to take over and that stings so badly he can
hardly bear it. Lost his self-respect as well.
This is not what the PTB brought him back for, not his
higher purpose, not the vision for his future. This is
not the means by which he will ‘Shanshu’. All that
exists for Angel right now is revenge, and he knows
damned well that he’s going to get it. He knows that
something has been changed irrevocably tonight, that
he’s not the same man he was before Lindsey entered
this room and he knows that the lawyer has won, that
Wolfram and Hart have won, no matter what happens from
here on in...
Rising slowly to his feet, Lindsey watches
dispassionately as the guards start to work Angel over
with the stun-guns and their bodies; a boot here, a
fist there. He issues his instructions in a voice
that, to his own surprise, is clear and confident.
“You can't kill him, you know the rules. But…hurt
him.” Lindsey turns and walks stiffly from the room.
*******************************************************
Angel stirs, tries to move as much as his bruised and
broken body allows. He can feel the acute pain of
cracked ribs from being kicked continuously, dull pain
of steel-capped boots that connected with his
abdominals over and over until he could actually feel
those ribs breaking under the pressure. His mouth is
so dry that he can barely find enough moisture to wet
his uncomfortably sore lips. He drifts back in from
dreams of need and pain and bitter despair to hear
Gunn's voice. “Hey, c'mon now, c'mon Angel-man, I came
as soon as I got the call. You're hurt bad. That's it,
take it easy, that's right, let's just get you
standin' up…”
the end
