Cross posted to slashthedrabble and my regular journal.
AtS – Season 5 – A Hole in the World – Lorne, Spike/Angel (200 words – PG for one naughty word)
Kill Me, Kiss Me
Sometimes Lorne feels just like wallpaper. For a fluorescent green-skinned demon with a bright and wicked sense of fashion, he has a way of blending into his surroundings like a chameleon. He’s sitting on the couch in Angel’s office, watching both Spike and Angel arguing over stupid astronauts and caveman.
He shakes his head in amazement. There they stand, toe to toe… almost nose-to-nose. One more fraction of an inch and they’d be lip-to-lip. The tension in Angel’s back is telling. He’s holding himself back.and doesn’t even realize it.
They argue, they scream, they beat each other bloody and it’s the most ridiculous thing Lorne has ever seen. If only Angel wasn’t such a stubborn, brooding vampire he’d see what’s right in front of his eyes.
Spike, on the other hand, wears it all on his sleeve. He’s constantly in Angel’s face, pushing and trying to get him to react in the only way the older vampire allows himself… anger. Blondie is begging for it with every word out of his mouth. Every shove and poke. He’d crawl into Angel’s lap if he’d only sit still.
Lorne sighs and leaves, wishing they’d just fuck and get it over with already.
AtS – Season 3 – Lorne/Angel
Angel On My Shoulder
The little one clings to his father’s broad shoulder like a limpet, sleeping peacefully at last. Who’d’a thunk the vampire’s true face would be so soothing? Maybe that would explain why Lorne has no problems with Connor. He wears his demon-ness with pride.
Lorne gazes lovingly at father and son, paying particular attention to the soothing circles Angel rubs into the baby’s back; the touch so tender it brings desire to the anagogic demon’s heart. If only Angel would hold him with such sweetness.
He’ll hold his council. If it doesn’t come from Angel, it’s not worth having at all.
BtVS – Season 3 – Giles/Wesley
Thrust, Parry, Lunge
Thrust, parry, lunge. That’s the way it’s taught in class. The standard drills. The hours of repetition upon repetition. Thrust, parry, lunge. And Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was nothing if not a diligent student. His father would have nothing less for a son.
And yet, there stands Giles; unmoving, not looking and still meeting his every thrust, parry, lunge. Infuriating! That’s what it is. Galling! Intoxicating!
Dear Lord, the cool just rolls off the man. If only Mr. Giles would put down the epee and see him there. Would move towards him and thrust, parry, lunge. A whole different playing field, indeed.