§ PROFILE   § LIBRARY   § PARTNERS   § RESEARCH   § MISCELLANIA   § HOME Dark Playground by Christie Pairing: Angel/Lindsey Rating: NC-17 Content: m/m slash; Lindsey POV Summary: Angel asks Lindsey for an explanation. Takes place immediately after Dear Boy. Spoilage: To Shanshu in LA through Dear Boy Distribution: List archives may have it, anyone else, drop me a jingle. tinamishi@yahoo.com Disclaimer: The Angelverse was created by Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. All rights are reserved by Twentieth Century Fox. No copyright infringement intended; no profit made. Improv: ash, feathers, infinite, perception Dedication: To Lar, for starting the improv list. It's given me inspiration to jump hurdles over my writer's block and compose again. Albeit smut, but I'm writing, damn it! Apologies to Spyke, for it's Angel-on-top. *grins* Author's Note: This story assumes prior relationship between Angel and Lindsey, such as depicted in my story 'Deals With the Devil'. You don't have to read it for this to make sense, but it might help for emotional context and setting. It can be found on my website: http://www.stas.net/tooprecious/ ** "Why are you doing this to me, Lindsey?" The question begs vulnerability, yet the man asking it is far from vulnerable. I'd heard the question before; many times in fact, and each time, the person asking was asking for more. More than an explanation: an apology, a take back. Something. This time though, the query is as surface as the motivation. He simply wants to know why I raised his Sire from the dead, brought her back as a human being, albeit an evil one, and set out to slowly destroy his life. No apology necessary. A take back not in the cards. Just an explanation of my impetus. At least, that's the façade. And I knew 'cause you cut off my hand' wasn't going to cut it. I couldn't figure out what was. When he's around, I act impenetrable, but he knows, as well as I, that I'm not. Any outside observer would perceive our interactions as a battle of wills, but we know otherwise. We know the vampire always has the upper hand, and relishes in that fact. But still, I pretend. Just like he pretends he's in Los Angeles for redemption, when we both know it's really purgatory. He's just biding time, body and his soul, waiting for the day when he's pitched into hell for eternity. And because we both know that, he is free to unleash his demon with me while the soul remains intact. Yet until clothes are shed along with inhibitions, the masks remain; one of unrepentant lawyer, one of excessively penitent demon. Hence the question, one that would be laced with vulnerability if it were coming from any other being. The simply surface question coming from this vampire with a soul whose life is now topsy-turvy because of a beautiful blond woman who christened him unto eternal life one night in a shadowy alley centuries ago. So the question is between us, hovering somewhere over my desk in neon blue lettering; impossible to ignore. The tension is palpable and I wonder if I should feel guilty as I look at him across my desk, standing near the door in the shadows, black coat flowing about him like fog in the thick of the night. Everything about Angel says night. Not darkness, because there's a light within him, impossible to see unless you know him and his wishes for himself and the world. No, Angel is the part of night that is peaceful, the night that surrounds you when you're looking at the moon, or counting stars on the roof with a bottle of champagne and perfect company. And that night is in my office, asking me why I do the things I do to ruin his life, and I have no answer. Guilt is an interesting phenomenon to me, and I would be much more comfortable not feeling it at all. Ever. But sometimes, inopportune times, it's there, buzzing around me like a mosquito on a humid day. It's only been strong enough to throw me off track once, and I'll never regret it because it took me to Angel's offices and began this charade that we play on occasion. And the feelings I get from this charade, the pure, raw, physical satisfaction that comes from time spent with Angel is far more powerful than any morsel of guilt that may flit through my conscience at any given moment. I've gotten so good at pushing those feelings away, burying them so deep that I can't find them anymore; so hidden that they disintegrate into the recesses of my mind and I know they will never emerge again. To be responsible for turning Angel's life into a circus filled with walking, talking giant hot dogs is a rush. He knows it, and that's why he's here. I don't have an answer for why my colleagues and myself have masterminded this plan, but I'm glad we did, and he knows that too. That, too, is why he's here. So I continue my silence, there's nothing to say, and he continues to wait for the answer he knows will never come. The question he's put on the table: why are you doing this to me, has become nothing more than a greeting of sorts; the thing to say to justify his trip to the Wolfram & Hart building. It has no meaning; just words that will infinitely remain unanswered. It's a prelude, if you will, to the act that I know is to follow, if one of us will get the balls enough to make a move. It's always this way, slow to start, unless he's really mad, then the demon surfaces and isn't slow to do anything. But right now he's calm, I almost wish him angry, so the bulge that is becoming apparent in my pants can be attended to sooner rather than later. But he doesn't move, and it kind of pisses me off since he's supposed to be the aggressor here, always is, probably always will be, if he can just get that much needed kick in the ass to begin. I can't see any evidence of arousal, but I never can while his coat's still on, and I, unlike him, don't have the preternatural aptitude to sense these things. I know he can sense me, I know it from precedent and I know it from the small, near imperceptible smile that slithers across his lips. It's gone almost immediately, but I really don't give two fucks about his expression, since he doesn't usually have one and that's just fine with me. Angel takes two steps forward, finally, and I take two more, closing the distance between us quickly, because the clock is ticking and time is no one's friend but the eternal vampire's. He's upon me before I even finish my part of the game, standing so close - just standing - not breathing or moving but awarding me one of the most intense stares of my lifetime. Even the toughest prosecuting attorney ain't got nothing on Angel - his look that can penetrate right through to your very soul. He's always so damn high and mighty about those pesky little souls and doing the right thing and all, it's like the Powers gave him this gift of looking right through people, like fucking Superman. God, I don't care though, because he's here - right here - and waiting for me to do my duty, which I do, willingly. Brush of my hands on his shoulders and his coat falls soundlessly to the floor, pooling at his feet like a muted puddle in a dark alley. His shirt has buttons - he didn't bother with a tie for his entrance into the building since it is after hours - but I ignore them…plenty of time to get them undone, and if worse comes to worse, I'm not afraid to rip a shirt or two. He never complains, though I know they're not cheap cotton knock-off shirts, but the real mc coy. It's almost comical, the vampire with a soul - a slave to the Powers of the Light, and to fashion. So I ignore the shirt and kneel, hands at his belt buckle, slipping it easily from it's clasp, freeing the button and lowering the zipper of presumably Armani - he likes Armani - pants. He isn't wearing anything underneath - he's stopped in recent visits - and only now is his arousal evident, though I've known it was there all along. Large and straining - god he's beautiful - I take him between my lips and suck, drawing a low, heated growl from somewhere just above his belly button and below his pectorals. Practice has made me virtually faultless at this task, and I don't hesitate in giving the vampire what he wants - now - because I've learned that all bark and no bite makes Angel a dull boy. It doesn't take long for me to bring him to completion, because it's been long - too long - since he's had a reason to come by my office. Funny how there always has to be a reason, yet we never say more than one or two sentences to each other before getting down to business. No matter - because I've done my initial part, and our little routine has begun. He's sated for the moment, and can concentrate on me, my favorite part of the evening. Doesn't take more than mere moments after I've swallowed and released him, then I'm being pulled up the massive body, one not as cool to the touch as you'd think but cool enough to rival my heat. His shirt's gone, which surprises me because I know he didn't rip it off in the heat of the moment - Angel doesn't rip his own clothes - and I see it folded neatly at the edge of my desk, which astounds me further and almost offends. Almost, but doesn't because I really don't care when his hands begin working my own shirt open, fingers caressing every bare inch of flesh revealed. I removed my tie long ago, promptly when the long hand of the clock above my desk ticked to 12, the short hand resting on 5, it was gone, thrown somewhere in a bottom desk drawer, amidst a barrage of other discarded ties, one for each time Angel has visited my office after sundown. I don't really know why, so don't ask. When each button has been carefully unfastened, large, surprisingly elegant hands round to my back, fingers weaving over muscles that knotted during various phone calls and meetings throughout the day. He's rubbing them out and I'm just standing there, wondering if it's possible to melt into the floor and gathering a mental image of myself in a black pointed hat with a wart on my nose screaming 'I'm melting! I'm melting' in a screechy voice. My eyes are closed so I don't see him but feel him move around me, his naked body leaning into my now-bare back. He's cool compared to me; of course, I'm on fire, feeling Angel's renewed hardness pressing against the fabric of my pants, seeking it's coveted place, unaware that entrance cannot be gained until one last piece of clothing is removed. But Angel doesn't seem to be in a hurry - this is one of those times that he's not - and he simply stands against me, using his chest to massage my back, his hands retracing a path around to my stomach and staying there, drawing small circles around my belly button. It doesn't scare me - anymore - when he leans his face into the crook of my neck, seeking the ardent beating of my pulse there, drawing moistened lips across the coveted point over and over again, all the while beginning to breathe, to pant, and then, to almost-whimper with need-but-can't-have. I've thought about telling him it's okay, to bite, a little, but I haven't…because it might not be okay, he might not stop drinking. He probably would, but he's a good fuck, not a soul mate - pardon the pun - , so I don't know that for sure, and I sure as hell aren't going to be the one to find out just how tight a hold he has on his inner demon. I already tread in shark-infested waters as it is. Predictably, the demon does come to fore, I feel his face shift and change, incisors elongate and scrape gently against the flesh of my neck, and still I'm not afraid. Excited as all get out, but not afraid. My pants are tenting in front of me and I'm tempted to remove them myself, but I don't move, because Angel is in control - always in control - and that doesn't seem to be in his game plan right now. He continues to nuzzle me, vampire face not detracting from thorough exploration of my neck and shoulders, collarbone to back, no area untouched. I think I might be moaning in time with his purrs - growls? - whatever noise he's making, but I'm not sure since all I hear is an animated buzzing in my ears, rising to a cacophony of lust in my brain. Finally, the vampire touches me *there*…*there*… god, again. *There.* Hand inside the front of my pants, rubbing leisurely, squeezing gently, alternately just enough and not quite enough until I'm reduced to whimpering words such as 'please' and 'now' and 'harder' and did I mention…'please please god now please'? The begging brings a chuckle from him - him laughing always startles me because I don't hear it often - and he turns me around to face him, vampire visage gone, makes eye contact before turning his attention to pushing my pants down my thighs and backing me to the edge of the desk. The oak is cold - colder than the vampire at least - against my bare ass and the backs of my thighs, and soon my back feels the paper of my desktop calendar. I can't help but smirk at the thought that I'm about to get fucked atop my notes and memos about appointments with Bob in Accounting to go over my expense statements. One hand continues rubbing me as he rubs himself with lubrication, and ohmygodIthinkImightcomerightnow, but he lets go, only to sink a slick digit into my waiting passage, allow it to freeze there a moment - for a blessed moment - before adding to it another until I'm again whimpering, again with the please and the now and the please please god now please. He loves that shit. Finally, fingers are removed and something much larger, and much more resolute is bumping against me; he slides in with one long, smooth stroke - he fucks like he walks - long, flowing strides that divulge gravity, confidence and a certain degree of condescension. My right leg is up hooked over his shoulder, the left splayed carelessly off the end of my desk, and all I see above me is ashen steel, muscle-hard arms, torso and stomach, moving in the half-light of my low wattage lamp; a steady rhythm to my bristly, ragged breathing and his even, useless pants. Long, amazing moments pass, moments of sheer, physical bliss, my cock untouched except by the coarse hairs clustered below his navel, rubbing at it's base with feather-light touches. It's enough for me now, all I can handle; being touched in any other way might bring me to explosion way - way - sooner than I want this to end. And the vampire seems to have this notion as well, because he doesn't touch me, only keeps his dark, glittering eyes locked with a place somewhere above my head - eyes never on me - and he pumps his hips in a made-up rhythm, long, measured strokes that belie the question of where one ends and the next begins. It's pretty damn close to utopia as far as I'm concerned. I keep my eyes focused on where our bodies are joined, my cock obscuring half the view, jutting proudly up toward my belly button, growing harder and longer with each agonizing stroke into me. I'm tempted to touch myself but don't, I'd be pissed if I was responsible for throwing myself out of my own oblivion, keeping hands locked onto biceps bulging from his arms; his hands braced on either side of me, one on the oak of my desk, one on the scribbled memos and appointments about my expense statements with Bob in Accounting. After more moments, he quickens considerably, and again his face shifts into demon visage, eyes shifting from dark chocolate to yellow gold, scintillating like the sun he never sees. The hand on my desktop calendar lifts, and he habitually reaches for my straining erection, beginning to pump it in time with his thrusts, drawing a long, austere cry from me at the sudden chilly contact. He echoes my exclaim, only he's releasing, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted with fangs showing, the picture of sheer terror mixed with utter splendor as he empties himself into me until I feel him soften. I'm breathing as hard as he is - mine necessary to avoid hyperventilation - but haven't come even as he slips out of me. It might have been the shock of the cold hand, or the knowledge that if I hold out, just a moment, he'll -- Do what he's doing now - ohgodpleasenowplease - as his lips draw back to reveal once again blunt teeth, large, talented tongue snakes out and supplants his hand on my cock, licking the weeping moisture from it's tip before sliding down. No one can deep throat like a vampire can, I'll assure you of that. I don't last a minute, maybe thirty seconds and one swallow before I arch my back and cry out in completion. And still he doesn't stop, even after he's collected every last drop from me and I'm soft in his mouth, still he sucks and licks and even nips a little, just to tease, just to keep tasting some kind of warmth, being as close to a human as he's ever going to get again. Finally he releases and stands, eyes already roving the room for his shirt - still folded neatly at the corner of my desk - his pants, puddled on the floor next to his coat, and his shoes and socks, somewhere under the folds of his coat. I have to stop trembling and allow my muscles to re-gel into some kind of solid form before I can even think about sitting up, much less standing, getting dressed, and functioning like a normal human being. It's always like this: he's ready to run a marathon after we fuck, I'm ready to cocoon myself in bed for three days. When he's dressed, I'm just barely pulling my pants on, the first step in a massive effort to dress myself. We still haven't said a word, not since his initial question of why I'm doing this to him - why Darla's back and why the mind fuck for so long before revealing herself. He won't get an answer, and he knows that, knew that coming in he was getting something entirely different, something much more physical, much more basic, and, if you bothered to think about it, a lot more confusing. But he didn't bother to think about it, I knew that, to him it was just what it was, fucking without losing his soul - fucking the enemy, gaining some sort of control over a situation that was mostly out of control, and satiating the beast within him into thinking he's won, at least for a night. END.