Headful of Ghosts, pt 10
Aug. 31st, 2005 09:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wesleysgirlThe smell is wrong. It's needle-sharp, like chemicals, and Angel knows it's wrong. He touches the man's shoulder and waits for a reaction, but there's no response.
He needs to touch skin.
Without any effort, Angel tears the front of the man's shirt in two, baring pale skin interlaced with blue veins that look like they were painted on with watercolors, the edges feathery and broken by the texture of the skin. Angel's fingertips touch, and he watches as the man shivers.
It's not enough. Angel needs more.
When the sleeping man is naked and laid out bare, clothes nothing more than strips of fabric on the floor, Angel runs his hands over warm skin and sighs with pleasure. He doesn't know who this is or who he's here, but he loves the way the man murmurs in his sleep, head rolling to one side as nipples tighten into points. The man's cock is heavy, half full against his thigh, and Angel wants to taste it, so he lowers his mouth down and licks, a long, slow lick as the flavor sings on his tongue.
For just a second, he worries that this might be real, but the thought floats away, fluttering and transparent. He feels safe here.
He wants to see a flush on the skin, so Angel pinches a thigh and smiles at the reddened mark that appears. "Who are you?" he asks again, not expecting an answer, and the sleeping man shifts and murmurs a name that might be Angel's.
Angel kneels up and touches his own cock, hard and ready, swollen with a desire that never seems to go away.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Spike's voice asks. Angel turns his head to look at him, standing solid in the doorway that looks miles away.
He blinks and Spike is there, hand rough on his upper arm, shaking him.
"Can't leave you alone for a second, can I," Spike says, fingers digging deep into the muscle and making Angel growl. The sound, unexpected, makes him cringe. "You've done enough, Angel. Leave him be."
Angel looks, and the man sleeping on the bed is Xander Harris, older and changed but recognizable for the first time. It slams into him; the breathless memory of the taste of Xander's blood in his mouth, heat on his tongue and around his cock as he --
Xander opens his eye, drugged and glassy, and Angel gasps, "I'm sorry. I'm so -- " and bolts from the room and the memories.
He needs to touch skin.
Without any effort, Angel tears the front of the man's shirt in two, baring pale skin interlaced with blue veins that look like they were painted on with watercolors, the edges feathery and broken by the texture of the skin. Angel's fingertips touch, and he watches as the man shivers.
It's not enough. Angel needs more.
When the sleeping man is naked and laid out bare, clothes nothing more than strips of fabric on the floor, Angel runs his hands over warm skin and sighs with pleasure. He doesn't know who this is or who he's here, but he loves the way the man murmurs in his sleep, head rolling to one side as nipples tighten into points. The man's cock is heavy, half full against his thigh, and Angel wants to taste it, so he lowers his mouth down and licks, a long, slow lick as the flavor sings on his tongue.
For just a second, he worries that this might be real, but the thought floats away, fluttering and transparent. He feels safe here.
He wants to see a flush on the skin, so Angel pinches a thigh and smiles at the reddened mark that appears. "Who are you?" he asks again, not expecting an answer, and the sleeping man shifts and murmurs a name that might be Angel's.
Angel kneels up and touches his own cock, hard and ready, swollen with a desire that never seems to go away.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Spike's voice asks. Angel turns his head to look at him, standing solid in the doorway that looks miles away.
He blinks and Spike is there, hand rough on his upper arm, shaking him.
"Can't leave you alone for a second, can I," Spike says, fingers digging deep into the muscle and making Angel growl. The sound, unexpected, makes him cringe. "You've done enough, Angel. Leave him be."
Angel looks, and the man sleeping on the bed is Xander Harris, older and changed but recognizable for the first time. It slams into him; the breathless memory of the taste of Xander's blood in his mouth, heat on his tongue and around his cock as he --
Xander opens his eye, drugged and glassy, and Angel gasps, "I'm sorry. I'm so -- " and bolts from the room and the memories.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2005-08-31 02:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-31 02:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-31 02:18 pm (UTC)Please fix him.
*g*
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Date: 2005-08-31 02:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-31 02:27 pm (UTC)Um. Possibly I am disturbed.
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Date: 2005-08-31 03:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-31 03:46 pm (UTC)That simple line may be the most disturbing thing you've written in this fic. It delineates with exact precission just how far from reality Angel is.
Julia, wowed
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Date: 2005-08-31 03:51 pm (UTC)Poor Spike. Poor Xander. Poor Angel. This is so (beautifully, deliciously, compellingly) fucked up.
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Date: 2005-08-31 05:12 pm (UTC)Very cool, dude.
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Date: 2005-08-31 05:15 pm (UTC)Thank god for Spike. That's all I can say. And thank you for writing and sharing this.
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Date: 2005-08-31 05:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-31 05:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-31 05:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-01 01:42 am (UTC)Love the image of Xander's chest being painted in watercolors, and the murmurs that Angel is eating up.
And again the nice room metaphor with the door seeming so far away.
This story's so evocative.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-01 07:46 am (UTC)