Damn. How much does he remind me of Dawn? With a dick. Whining. Needy. And who the fuck would leave Brian? After everything he's done for him?
Night, snow glows in moonlight. It’s cold, but he can’t feel it. Leather creaks when he shifts, his gaze never wavering from the closed doors of the church. Faint sounds of singing, a voice lifted in praise drift, tease with devotion, thoughts of warmth, of belonging to something … to someone.
Patience belongs to him, life taught him that. On the hunt, others would give up, find comfort in front of fireplaces, the deep red of wine, heat of skin on skin, friction of callused hands reaching under, up and he would stay. Motionless, alone, until the prey was his.
Hugh Jackman RPS
Risks, he never took them, Hugh knew, just by looking. Chose the safe road every time. Took the well-traveled path. Yet he came to the show almost every night. Stood at the bar afterwards, bottle of Bud on wood in front of him. Never speaking to anyone, but his eyes held Hugh’s. Conversations, questions, laughter, arguments, lust. Touches never given, caresses that spoke volumes, ghost kisses holding passion, desire.
The run over, the end counted in hours, not weeks. Hugh took the choice. Leaving the bar, he dropped a key beside the bottle, in condensation. Met his eyes.
David Boreanaz/Christian Kane
It had to be the hands, Chris thought. Slamming back the last of the beer, blinking away the blur of intoxication. Fucking huge hands. Long fingers, smooth palms, strong wrists. A callus here and there, the man liked to work with his hands. Liked to talk with his hands. Liked to touch with his hands.
Shiver at the memory. First time, didn’t matter where or when, they were alone. Both looked up at the same moment, the conversation dwindled, died. Chris made an excuse, time to leave. Boots scuffed on the ground/floor/gravel/linoleum and then David touched him with those hands.
The ropes cut, his arms ached. Stretched and bound, helpless, but nothing hurt like the burns on his chest. The holy water Dru *his daughter* had poured on him. Scars forming over smooth skin and even they would eventually fade. Leaving Angel only the memory. Another to add.
A soft touch, barely there and Angel opened his eyes. Brown meeting blue.
A dip of blonde past Angel’s head, soft, wet, warm tongue on his chest. His back arches forward.
“No. Think I’ll spend a little time here … first.”
So easy. Too easy. Always had been. A significant glance, a smile that spoke of sin. But this one … this man with shoulders that didn’t end, eyes that were darker than the hallway between the dance floor and the back room. This man wasn’t impressed. This man hadn’t even noticed him, and that? Was not acceptable. Brian approached slowly, like one would to a feral kitten, an abandoned dog.
“Buy you a drink?”
When those eyes slid over him, Brian could feel it and he knew. This man would have him on his knees before the night was over.
Off to the next!
*licks you thoroughly*