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Black Ink
by Rabbit
Distribution:BAImprov, list archives, my site:
http://www.geocities.com/impudent_guttersnipe
Summary: Lindsey thinks to advance his career by recruiting a slayer.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I am not Joss Whedon. *CHECKS* Nope, still not!
Feedback: impudent_guttersnipe@hotmail.com
Improv #13: All fics set in the Wishverse.
Notes: Happy Birthday Puca. Thanks to Kassie for telling me to
Shut the hell up, and Sam for bringing the ice cream. Also
thanks to Gileswench for the Buffy characterization stamp
of approval.This is an experiment with a different 'style'
for me?
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Black Ink by Rabbit
=======================
Gold pen. Always the gold pen. He feels that familiar thrill when the thin,
precise black line pops off the page. Black is classic, professional. Blue
is for thirteen year old girls named Tiffany who draw little hearts and never
write out the word for, just the number followed by the travesty of 'EVR'. He
knows this because he's been there, lived that. So it's always black, because
intent and attitude are so closely linked in his mind.
"Mr. McDonald, your 10:30 is here."
Capital M. Brings the peaks of the letter up sharp and jagged because eyes
are drawn to forceful lines. He always starts strong, lets people know he's not
someone to fuck with. Grip the barrel of the pen firm, but don't push too
hard. That just signals desperation.
Left index finger pushes the speaker button. His voice is low, distracted by
other thoughts. "Send them in."
The D stretches not quite as high as the M, rounder. It brings the eye back
down and pushes it along to catch the rest of the small, uniform script. He ends
the pen's contact with the paper quickly. Don't linger, it looks indecisive and
too often leads to bullshit squiggles or doodles. No. Better to keep it exact
and to the point. It's always better to be the one who controls when something
begins and when it ends.
Lindsey hears the door open, looks up.
"Mr. McDonald?"
Rises from the chair and straightens his tie. He loves this tie, $150 at
Bloomies. Dark blue silk with embroidered red crosshatchings. He tries to
buy a new one every month, but they all end up as nearly identical versions of
this same one. May as well not bother, but he feels better knowing he *can*.
"Ms. Post. "
Quick visual sweep takes in blonde hair, small features, and expensive cream
suit. Lindsey makes a small adjustment to the image he's carried since their
first phone conversation. Not much revision is needed. The hair- a little
lighter than he'd pictured. Maybe she's a little taller?
He doesn't need a prior meeting to know her; he's met her a hundred times
before. That classist, uptight bitch that worries you're going to track
something unmentionable on their marble life, but when you're sweating to
dig another trench for their roses, you feel their tits squash into you from
behind as a hand reaches around to grab your...
They shake hands. She has a firm grip-remember that. It always helps him to
tie a name with a face and a handshake. Every small piece of another person
gathered, hoarded, stuck together in a mental collage that's filed and
indexed for future use. He never knows when he'll need to dismantle someone, from
the inside out. Always ready to, because he's done it before.
She's brought the girl and Lindsey releases the watcher's hand, takes his
first look at the Slayer. Well, the first time seeing her in person. He's got a
thick folder full of photos. This wasn't just a spur of the moment decision.
He's planned this for a while...carefully plotting details to arrange this
meeting, meticulously drawn a strategy to be the one to bring a Slayer to
Wolfram & Hart. As far as he knows, no one's tried that before, he'll be the
first. It will be quite a coup, leading to a corner office, maybe another
zero on the end of his paycheck. All of that tied into a meeting with this one
girl.
He's been told her name is Buffy. He laughed when he'd first tried to
associate the name with the haggard, bitter face that stared up at him from a three by
five image. Seventeen years old...those eyes look two hundred and seventeen,
another weary layer of destiny clouding them for each nasty she's had to
dust?
And here she is now, in person. She looks around the office, doesn't bother
to keep the boredom from seeping to the surface as she ignores them. Perhaps
she's trying a little too hard?
Baggie blacks, a grey tank...and the boots (laced up Doc Martins). She's a
million disenchanted suburban teens, but this one's got a secret, a secret that
Lindsey McDonald may be able to use to his advantage. So he lets her be and tries
not to push, just sizes up his next associate. He likes to think of it already as a
past accomplishment, motivation is 50 percent of success.
Not what first comes to mind when he thinks slayer, her body type throws him
off and seeds that small shadow of doubt. Buffy has a small frame, the kind that
gets your body tossed in a dumpster, or, if your lucky, just pimped out.
It's hard to believe that she's the one, but he's come to learn never to take
anything for granted.
Lindsey's reminded of that as he studies her closely for about twenty
seconds. Even without purpose, she's ready. A hand reaches out, quick to snag some
decorative office item chosen by a designer whose name he can't even
remember. She lifts the crystal globe and holds it up at eye level, squints as she
peers into it, then replaces it with a thud that's just a little *too* loud in the
room.
"Lindsey McDonald, this is Buffy...Buffy Summers."
Flashes a smile... not too much, because he doesn't want either of them to
know how badly he wants this alliance to come to pass. He tries to keep his voice
interested, but casual.
"The Slayer."
No answer, but the stare that should be bottled and sold under the label
fuck you. He can't help the smile from growing a little wider as he recognizes
his`youth. (Note to self: call your mother and apologize for being such an
annoying shit).
"Buffy," the watcher says in warning, that small edge of despair and the
fatigue of trying to keep control over this one swimming somewhere in those cultured
English tones.
It's easy to see who the hard sell of this team is going to be.
He nods to Gwendolyn Post as The Slayer turns her back and wanders over to
the picture window behind his desk. He wants to do this on his own terms right
now, the watcher blinks and then gives her affirmation. When he comes up behind
the slayer, he tries not to move to close, the mental image of his body crashing
through the glass and falling to the sidewalk below stops him about a foot
from her. Still close enough that he doesn't have to raise his voice.
"You can call me Lindsey." He tries to find that universal connection, the
one that speaks to her as someone who knows what it's like to have to bang your
head against a committee that has all the credentials needed to observe, but
can't find the balls to actually walk their ass into the thick of the battle.
"What kind of bullshit has she signed us up for this time?" Buffy asks,
still looking down at the clogged street below. Hand wedged in the corner of the
glass, she leans forward a little peers over the corner of the windowsill.
He fights the urge to reach out and grab her, like she's going to fall or
jump through an inch of supposedly shatterproof glass.
"She thought you might benefit from a little," searches for the words,
"corporate sponsorship." He still tries to resist the impulse to pull her
away from the view. Like she needs someone to protect her. He makes mental note
to drag himself into the twenty first century.
She steps back into him, one hand still on the metal frame opening the city
out before them, with the other she reaches discreetly behind her. A clamp of
her fist and a slight twist makes him straighten, say a quick prayer. Fight to
keep the panic from lacing his words. "Ah, independent contractor. I can respect
that."
Hears the grunt of not again from behind him and raises a hand to stop
Gwendolyn and whatever interference she was planning. He's not ready to tag out yet.
Tries to keep his attention focused on the one in front of him, the one who's got
his whole life in her grip. Suddenly wonders if reconstructive surgery is on the
health insurance plan.
"I'm thinking, why do I want a bunch of lawyers crawling up my ass, when
it's already occupied by the watcher's council?" One more squeeze and she lets
go, already convinced there won't be any follow through. She's used to winning,
to getting her way.
Lindsey tries to get the words out, feels that they're an octave higher
before even making it past his larynx. Clears throat and blinks slowly, thankful
the boys can breathe safely again. Control issues-check.
Tries another tact. Reach down and find that inner suave, where's the guy
that talked Andrea Ferguson into pulling a train in her grandmother's basement
before she even knew what hit her? She was probably the same age then...
"Well, it's nice to have some funds at your disposal. I'm thinking the merry
old council likes to issue the orders, but they're a little tight with the
checkbook?" Thinks of that company credit card, and a plane ticket to some
small island where swimsuits are gauche, then mentally slaps himself when he
remembers she's seventeen and has a penchant for penile torture.
"If you want a hooker, I know a street corner. I can hook you up." She turns
around finally and gives a sly little smile, obviously pleased with her own
cleverness. "But I'm not open for bidding if it means someone else is going
to try and give me orders."
Tries to stop his lip from turning up...not successful. A head shake and he
tries to decide if he's ready to embrace this one into the fold. Wonders what
Holland Manners would say if he found a junior partner bare ass naked on his desk
with an almost underage slayer's legs locked around his waist.
"Strictly case by case," it's a promise followed by a tongue licking dry
lips. He blinks at her. Some chick once told him he had the longest eyelashes...just
before she rode him hard...for three and a half hours. He was so swollen; he
had to keep an ice pack in his shorts for the next three days. Substitutes
Buffy's face for hers, and has to clear his throat before he can continue.
"Come out with me tonight, just you and me...to kind of cement this
partnership. We'll eat...I'll take you around. You can see how much easier things are when
you have a credit card with a high limit and somebody else's name on it."
Sees the arms cross over her chest and the slump of her spine, knows he's
almost lost it when the neck tilts to the side and her look of skepticism warns him
he's about to be shot down. Goes in for another try.
"How about dancing...you like dancing?" Wonders if she has anything less urban
commando, then brightens at the thought that he might have to take her
shopping. Can't remember the last time he's ever looked forward to shopping with a
woman...girl.
"I'm sure you'd know where to take underage girls dancing."
Lindsey latches onto that promise of acquiescence. "I'll get you a fake ID."
"Isn't that illegal?"
Lindsey holds out his hand for her, half turns to face the door and her
watcher, convinced she's already on his side. Leans in and whispers conspiratorially,
"Sshh, don't tell. I know a good lawyer."
He pauses a beat as she hesitates, then relaxes as she shrugs. "I could
eat."
Lindsey's surprise when she allows him to touch her makes way for just a
little satisfaction when he notes Gwendolyn Post's mixture of astonishment and
disbelief. He remembers her telling him she's been Buffy's watcher for three
years. She never did share how long she was able to hold onto the reigns of
authority. He suspects The Slayer's only letting him touch her to prove some
obscure lesson to her watcher.
From what he's read in the reports he's gathered, the Slayer does whatever
the hell she feels like. Luckily, she's internalized her destiny so much that
it's a part of her, hasn't abandoned it yet. She at least follows the theme, if not
the letter of the watcher's edicts.
Buffy's resourceful and not afraid to get her hands dirty...and somehow he's
starting to like the kid. The only thing that unnerves him, besides the
super strength and killer instinct evident in one so young, is her complete and
utter business like attitude. She's seventeen for Christ sake, doesn't she ever
just let loose and have some fun?
Flashing back to his own life at seventeen reminds him to bite his tongue as
Lindsey realizes he's lucky to have survived his own teen phase.
He walks them to the door of his office, releases Buffy's arm a little more
quickly than he would like. Makes up for it by skimming a hand up her arm to
her shoulder, absently touching a blonde tendril. At her warning glare, he
smiles apologetically.
Should he tie his hands together tonight? It might look strange, but he's
willing to risk it if that means preserving her agreement.
Mentally calculating, he comes up with eight...eight more hours until he'll
see her again. Would a gift be pushing it? Fights the bubble of laughter when
envisioning a company fruit basket arriving at her hotel door. Still, he
doesn't see her being impressed by flowers or candy. What do you get the slayer who
has everything, a new pointy stick, a crossbow...an apartment and a closet full of
lingerie? More like the obituary of an insane lawyer. Now that, she might
get a kick out of.
Lindsey sees them out into the hallway, ponders how easy it would be to cut
the watcher's council out of the equation entirely, when he hears a voice that
makes him cringe. Where's that 'appropriate, team player face'? Ah, there it is,
time for working Lindsey.
"Lilah."
The simper and smile don't even begin to hide her longing to plunge the old
corporate knife into his back. He's thwarted many of her attempts to do just
that. Lindsey takes that moment to curse the fact that he hasn't packed her
body parts into a crate and dumped it off the pier yet this week.
"Child bride?" She asks with a sarcastically raised eyebrow.
What's the possibility of putting some kind of tripwire in the hallway to
alert him when she's coming...something that releases poisonous darts? Probably not
practical, but certainly not outside the realms of possibility. He's been in
the basement of this building before- frightening, creative, with a dash of the
macabre. Push that memory away.
Maybe just a video surveillance camera in his office then. He'll call
maintenance before the day is over.
Lilah's laugh is cut off when the slayer's arm juts out, hitting the wall
and caging her. No warning, no threats, just that dead stare like she's
measuring you for casket size. He loves this girl more every moment.
Slow count to ten, Lindsey's calculating the odds that Buffy would listen to
him even if he did try to intervene. Before he finishes, her arm withdraws and
she turns around to blow him a kiss.
"See you tonight lover." Gwendolyn Post follows helplessly behind.
Lilah snorts in annoyance and brushes an imaginary piece of lint off the
lapel of her jacket. "What work release program did you find that one in?"
No bitch. When he sends one for her, it'll be someone with no prints on
file. Completely untraceable. He's already practiced his concerned, yet
investigatively cooperative face. (Yes, officers, so tragic. It's hard when
someone so young is taken. Does he know anyone who wanted to see her dead?
Gentlemen, we're lawyers...in the public eye. Everyone makes a few
enemies...disgruntled clients...whatnot.) He mentally shakes himself. Is it
obsessive to plot a co-workers death with that much detail?
"Lilah, you've just had the pleasure of meeting Buffy Summers."
Head swivels so hard it nearly spins around completely. Of course, he won't
be surprised if she does start speaking some ancient demon tongue and spitting
pea soup. He would pity whatever possessing spirit had to be trapped in there
with her though.
"The Slayer?" she hisses.
Not sure if he's developed the ability to manifest his thoughts, Lindsey
checks to ensure that no one's levitating. Okay, safe. "You're familiar with her
work?"
That bitch. Lilah's probably been paying off all his contracts, rifling
through his desk after hours. Fuck the end of the day, he'll have maintenance in his
office before lunch.
She watches Buffy's retreating form all the way into the elevator before
turning back to him. "What are you planning with the slayer?"
He thinks-your gruesome death. Instead says, "Client confidentiality." while
miming an elaborate key locking ritual in the vicinity of his mouth.
"Where's she staying?" Lilah's unsuccessful in portraying an indifferent
front.
Lindsey names the address of a client he once got off for dealing crack.
====================
Black Ink (Part 2)
by Rabbit
====================
Lindsey grips the steering wheel and can't help but fondle the leather
covering, brushes his fingers against the knobby ridges that are intended
for increased control. Like a junior partner in LA needs the comfort of knowing
he can steer through the curves at 110 mph. doesn't care that it's superfluous,
just loves the texture of it. Loves to wallow in the reality that he can
have something just because he *wants* it.
Buffy leans over abruptly and jabs at the stereo. Sound blares through the
interior of the car, she listens for about five seconds, then punches
another button and changes the station.
She's not big on patience. Lindsey knows the feeling, but he's learned that
honing that particular virtue can be very beneficial. It's amazing that
she's lasted this long in the evening, that she even agreed to it in the first
place. Buffy seems the type who defines people and situations instantly, quick to
cut her losses.
"You can listen to anything you want."
He's rewarded with a stare that says-I am.
No difficulty admitting he asked for that one. Lindsey slides over a bit and
pops the glove box open, trying not to think about how close she is,
remembers how adverse she is to having anyone touch her. Perversely tries to get as
close as he can without actual contact while hoping he can pull off innocent
indignation if she gets too violent, convince her *she's* paranoid.
He realizes he's pushing it and sits upright again in his seat, nods to the
rows of plastic CD cases lining the small compartment that he's revealed. "I've
got all kinds of stuff, pick whatever."
He still has all his extremities and guesses she's decided to cut to cut him
some slack. He'd kill to have some inside track as to what's going on in her
head right now, he's usually pretty dead on when readings people, but he
just can't pigeon hole the Slayer into a nice, comfortable box. That's what he
thinks is causing this obsession with her, can't stand to have something that
eludes the neat organization of all variables in his life.
Wants to file her under disenchanted soldier locked in a war she's doing her
best to survive, but there's something else in there that he can't quite put
a finger on, a shadow of something that hasn't been allowed to surface very
often. It's not quite been exterminated entirely yet and he wants to dig just
enough to expose it, name it and exorcise it from his psyche.
She sifts through the titles of music silently, making a grimace when she
passes one that she hates.
"What are you in the mood for: Italian, French, Thai?"
She doesn't look up, but decides on a selection, shoves her rejects back
into the glove box and slides the disc into the stereo. "I don't care...food."
With any other date, this would be a coy attempt to make him feel in charge.
Buffy probably has never had a coy moment in her life, and if she ever let
him have the upper hand, he'd drop dead of a heart attack. Lindsey feels a
twinge, faced with her apathy...then chastises himself. Is he looking for mushy
declarations and dramatics? No, that would be a definite turnoff, must be
the rejection he craves? What kind of a sick fuck does that make him?
He automatically comes around to her side of the car; she's already out by
the time he crosses around. Shrugs, suspects he's going to have to rewrite a few
date rules before the evening is over.
"Lindey McDonald?" He knows better than to acknowledge that. Anyone he wants
to talk to him already knows who he is. If they have to ask, they're either
serving a summons or carrying out a hit.
"I'm sorry, I think you've mistaken me for someone else." Deny all knowledge
until he assesses the situation a little more. Turns around and sees two
men, familiar, but he can't quite place them at the moment. Quick run down the
mental list, pegs them as someone hired to do grunt work for Wolfram and Hart.
Whatever. He knows he doesn't want The Slayer too ingrained in business
matters, doesn't want to have to justify whatever office politics she might witness.
A quick glance at her and he sees she's looking from them, to him and at her
watch in boredom. Maybe he can cut this short before too much damage is done.
"Gentlemen, whatever this is...it can wait until morning." A quick nod
goodnight and he moves to sweep past them into the restaurant. It doesn't work out
quite the way he's planned it.
Both start to shift and then it hits him-fucking vampires. He should remember
that, this pair is usually called for a hit. This time the contract's on him.
Searches for a responsible party and Lilah's image immediately pops to mind.
Must not have enjoyed that little field trip he sent her on.
Lindsey hears Buffy's annoyed, "You've got to be kidding me?" and sees her
land a kick to the stomach of one of them. Unfortunately, the other vampire
lunges at him, taking Lindsey over the hood of his car. Both of them land on the
gravel near the front tires.
There's not much room to maneuver, since his head is jammed against the
wheel, he manages a punch or two before the vampire incapacitates him with a blow
to the solar plexus that paralyses him. All he can do is gasp for air as his
attacker moves in for the carotid.
Morgan's going to pay for this, yes she will. If he makes it through that is.
Luckily he's out with a slayer, but not really feeling the benefit of that
fact right now. Barely notices the vampire's stopped until he feels the dust
settle on him, spraying him with a fine powder that clogs his throat and replaces
silent gasping with loud, violent hacking as he tries to clear his airway.
"I guess dinner's off?" Buffy leans over him and offers a hand to grab. "I'd
better get you home."
Hopefully, saving his life is some kind of turn on for her. He thinks that's
probably too much to ask.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lindsey opens the door and swings it inward, stepping back to allow her
first access. Something inside of him rolls over at the thought of letting a girl
face his dangers for him, but she's the professional and he's seen her kill
statistics. He doesn't dwell on it, just delights in the fact that he can
breathe relatively normal again.
"Let me check it out. See if there's any surprise visitors who skipped the
invite."
This is a very hard way to get a girl up to your apartment.
He's proud to show it to her, then realizes she probably doesn't give a shit
about where he lives or how many clients he had to take to afford it. She
doesn't care how hard it was to achieve the perfect statement of success and
prestige that calls to him and silences the nagging grumble of what he's
come from, what he's left behind.
He's the only one who knows what he tries to leave behind, recalls the last
ten years of struggle to burn that bridge behind him. Mostly he can do it,
occasionally it rears its head on a quiet Sunday afternoon, when the hours
stretch out before him and he feels the first tickle of panic in his gut.
He's always quick to smash it back down though, before it can get a good hold on
him again.
Buffy checks the rooms with that swagger that Lindsey suspects no one else
really has the balls to attempt. She's mastered it; any other gait would be
unnatural, like tits on a boar- he tries not to laugh out loud like he's
five years old. The Slayer returns to stand in front of him as he remembers to
shut the door.
"No boogeys."
Lindsey's drawn to the movement of her hands. Every other part of her is a
study in apathy, but those hands clench and unclench in an uncontrolled
manifestation of agitation, of energy coursing through her with no outlet.
He chooses to ignore it, but can't quite seem to take his eyes of her. "You
want something to drink?"
"Trying to get me liquored up?" She looks disdainfully at him. "I could
probably drink you under the table."
Something warns him not to take that bet and he can't take his eyes off of
her hands yet. She fidgets-pumps fist and relaxes, repeats that endless cycle.
"You okay?" The concern isn't entirely a socially mandated nicety. He can't
explain why the plump artery running over her wrist bone fascinates him. It just
seems to grow fatter and fatter, rising in a traceable cord on the surface of her
skin.
"I just get a little pumped after a kill."
It must be murder to compartmentalize that maelstrom of power, but if anyone
has the willpower to do it-it's her. "What do you usually do to blow that off,
kill something else?"
"Sometimes."
He feels the contact seconds before she raises her hand and gives a little
shove that causes him to take a step back into the closed door."
"Sometimes I try something new...just to spice it up a bit."
"A sense of adventure is an admirable quality." Her hand slides down a few
inches until it's resting directly over his breastbone; can she feel his
pulse jump a little? His balls contract and he tries to convince himself he's not
a dirty old man. Keep a neutral face.
"You should be up for a ride McDonald. You've been sniffing around hard
enough today. Why don't you show me just what Wolfram and Hart can do for me, how
much better my life's going to be?" she steps into him and doesn't bother with
any pretense, smashes into him and her teeth pinch his lip.
He's not a stranger to a rough date, and fuck...it's been a while since he's
met someone who's intrigued him this much. He tries his own assault, reaching
between them until his palm meets her top rib, slides his hand up and
encircles her breast from underneath, holding it and stretching his fingers until they
span the circumference. Small squeeze, just enough so that he knows she
feels it. He decides- what the fuck, there's a freezer full of ice.
"I could snap you in two McDonald."
The velvety material of her tank is too much of a barrier; he slides it up,
past the plain, white cotton bra; it's serviceable, no nonsense and right now,
it's the sexiest thing he's ever seen. "Call me Lindsey." Wants her to moan it,
scream it, he'd be happy just to hear it pass her lips.
"What did you think I was going to do McDonald?" Deliberate flaunt of his
request. Bitter smile before her hand circles his throat, knocking his head
against the door. She was obviously aware of his connection to the vampires
at the restaurant. "Kill the vamps that you don't need anymore and ignore the
ones that are still useful to Wolfram and Hart?"
Actually he did think to skew their arrangement in exactly that direction.
Is he losing his poker face? Probably not, just forgetting that he's not dealing
with the average Friday night pick up. She may be young, but she's anything but
stupid.
"Maybe this is more what you had in mind?" she clamps her mouth over his and
he feels her teeth digging into the outline of his lips, starts sucking his
tongue into her mouth until it feels she'll suck the air out of his lungs.
He doesn't care because all he can think about is how badly he wants to fuck
her. Whatever she wants to do, he's ready to comply.
Her tank gets thrown hastily halfway across the room and she's already
unbuttoned his shirt by the time he backs her over to the couch. She pushes
it down off of his shoulders and a button scratches a red line as it scrapes
down his bicep, he barely notices.
Lindsey doesn't want to analyze what they're doing, what they're possibly
going to say to explain this, all he knows is he can't bear to take his hands off
of her. Brings her bra down, straps at her elbows and she's popping out of it
when his thumb scrapes over her nipple- just as she yanks his shirt to his
elbows. He wants to protest out loud as he's pulled away, as she tugs hard and the
sleeves snap his arms down to his sides, the material inverts over his wrists.
She makes up for it when she has to reach around him to get his shirt off
and her tits slide up against his chest. Remember to breathe and try not to
shoot right here. He doesn't know if he'll make it when she finally pulls Armani
over his wrists and steps back triumphantly. Balls it up and tosses it into the
wastepaper basket sitting by his desk.
Briefly, questions of who usually helps her out like this after a kill
circle through his brain. Who reaches over, jabs her in the ribs when they see her
frowning and orders," smile"? Who will tomorrow?
He decides this is the longest amount of time he ever wants to go without
touching her and reaches out to grab either side of her jaw, thumbs hooking
behind her ears. Doesn't care that his hands have tangled in her hair, just
pulls her down until he can finally taste her again. Lindsey knows she's
thinking the same thing because her tongue is in his mouth the moment their
noses touch.
For a moment, she fumbles with his zipper, but soon tugs his pants down past
his hips. Hand snakes in and reaches for his cock, coolness envelopes him.
Pulling. Squeezing. Coaxing him to swell and it's not three seconds before he obeys,
his cock shiny, darkening as the blood rushes to fill it. Skin stretched tight
and it feels like he's going to burst. Has he ever heard of that happening to
anyone? Can the skin split wide open? Is that medically possible?
Attention refocused as she pushes him down and he lands, sitting on the
couch in slight shock, wondering what he's done to fuck this up. There's no softening
from passion, no dewy eyed romantic gaze. She stares at him like she's
pissed and he frantically searches for anything to say to keep her from leaving.
God. He doesn't think he can take it if she leaves right now.
Then- knows she won't, because he catches that need looking back at him. She
bends over and pushes her pants down over her hips, bends down with breasts
hanging. Kicks them over her ankles as she straightens up. Says it slowly
and deliberately, "L I N D S E Y."
Tries not to visibly exhale in relief because she's not leaving. When she
eases herself over him, knees on either side of his hips, he reaches up and pulls
her down. Kisses her mouth once more before working his way down. Reaches her
nipple and licks it. Vertically. Concentrically. Takes the nub of it in his mouth
and sucks hard...harder. Curls his tongue in a u around the underside to increase
the pressure. Knows she appreciates the details when she grabs his head in both
hands and draws him into her.
Both hands circle her waist, feel the muscles there, then one slides down to
pet the triangle of fuzz between her legs, part it with his fingers until he
finds her cunt lips. Traces. Separates them. Works his finger around her
protruding little clit until he finds her hole slick and ready. One finger slides home
all the way to the knuckle and she moans low in her throat, so low, he can feel
it vibrating in his lips as he suckles her. Withdraw finger, slide back into
her. Moans himself when she grinds against him so hard his hand is trapped
between his chest and her pelvic bone.
Lindsey brings his other hand around to push her back a little, guide her.
She soon substitutes his cock for the finger and he's in her to the hilt,
feeling her wrapping around him. He fits so perfectly and it occurs to him again
that he's not the first. He laughs and calls himself seven kinds of foolish to
think that a seventeen-year-old slayer would have saved herself for him.
Knee on either side of his ribs, she leans back a little. Squeezes her ass
tight and brings him *that* much farther into her. When she does, he can't help
it, "Oh...jesus." Throws his neck back to curve over the couch. Stares up at the
ceiling and tries to stop the pressure that starts his balls jerking. Not
yet.
Her thigh muscles hunch...proving no one escapes the Slayer and his resolve
spits away in the semen that shoots into her. Leans head forward, hiding his red
face in her shoulder. Hopes she doesn't say anything...no jokes, doesn't think he
can laugh it off right now. Doesn't have to, she's quiet for about fifteen
seconds before she's pushing him away, trying to stand.
He reaches for her by the time she has one foot on the floor, but she breaks
his grip and rises, silently pulling on her jeans. She doesn't once look at him.
Think of something witty. Nothing. Realizes she's retrieved her tank from
the garbage can and it heading for the door, she's going to leave. "I'll call you
tomorrow. "
Don't think about what's going on behind those eyes. They belong to a stranger
even after what they've just done. "We can finalize some kind of...agreement."
"Can't. I'm heading down South. Some town called Sunnyvale...Sunnydale?" Buffy
shakes her hair out, combs fingers through it roughly and re twists it into a
knot on the top of her head. Takes a bobby pin from between her lips and
scrapes it through the strands, takes another...and another until it stays.
"Something like that. Guess they're having some problem with a hell
mouth, I've got to go check it out."
Visions of promotion drift somewhere behind the frown, but they're sinking fast.
He quickly wipes the disappointment from his face. "But you'll be coming
back?"
Her hand is on the doorknob. "If I do, you won't be seeing me." Twists the knob
and pulls the door open." I don't think Wolfram and Hart is an option I'm going
to take."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Feet up on the windowsill, he rocks the leather chair back and forth. The sun
reflects from a window of the building across the street. Lindsey squints his
eyes, but doesn't close them. Won't turn his head to alleviate the blinding
glare because he's feeling just that stubborn today.
The door opens without his secretary's warning. "Well I see you're not
dead."
He doesn't pivot the chair, because Lilah really *is* the last person he wants
to see right now." I wouldn't take another step. There's a highly sensitive trip
wire. Just had it installed this morning...could get ugly." She pauses and he
knows she's thinking about it.
"How's your little slayer project?"
(Fucked up beyond all recognition) "I decided it wasn't going to be as
beneficial as I thought. She didn't really embrace the mission statement."
"In other words, you screwed it up."
Wishes he really did install that trip wire, or a fucking alligator infested
moat. "Something like that."
[END]
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