Title: Desire Cycle 2: Twisted Obsession

Author: Serafina

email: serafina20@hotmail.com

Rating: R

Pairing: Wesley/Lindsey

Archive: anywhere, but I do like to be told where it goes

Disclaimers: I don't own them (sigh) I just like to play with them. Don't sue, I have nothing and make nothing. Quote is from "Phantom" by Susan Kay

Feedback: It makes me happy and feeds my muse. Even if you hate it, I'd like to know why so I can get better.

Summary: Lindsey's thoughts from his POV

Notes: This is a sequal to "Meditation on Desire" which is now a three part fic.

Wants. Needs. One wants, one longs, one desires. A person has needs and gradually, one becomes obsessed.

/ / Hell is not a place, it's a state of mind and body; hell is obsession with a voice, a face, a name . . ./ /

I can't get him out of my mind. I've tried, I really have. I slept with every call girl in L.A. When that didn't work, I started on the men. You can always find one for the right price. Dark hair, dark eyes; I must have screwed them all.

It didn't work.

My hand itches. I can still feel it. I wake up nights, sweating and shaking, dreaming of *that* moment, the one when *he* sliced my hand off from my wrist, looming over me in all his God damn majestic glory.

And I *still* wanted him, even then. Even on the floor, in pain, I wanted him. I wanted him to fuck me right there, in front of everyone, dominate me and show them all that he controlled me.

I must be fucking insane.

I searched for him in Darla. His sire. I tried to find him in her.

There would have to be a glimmer, just a glimpse; she is his sire. They are connected. Sometimes he was there. She'd come back, smelling like him, after her nights seducing him through dreams. It would drive me wild.

She would come through the door, carrying Angel's scent, talk about what she had done, then be taken away. They would go and I would be left, hard and frustrated, jerking off, trying to keep out of sight of the all seeing cameras.

Holland knew, though. He thought it was because of her. For being almost omniscient, he can be fucking stupid. I'm not used to not getting what I want anymore. When I was young I never got anything. It was a way of life. I hated it. Everyone around me got stuff, but not me. I got hit; I got beat. I got work.

I wanted out.

At thirteen I discovered the way to get what I wanted, the way to escape. He was a teacher. It was for a grade. Then there was storeowner. It was for a warm coat. Then I took off and found others.

I was soft, sweet, pliable and submissive. I played the perfect catamite for years, working my way up, working my way West.

I hated every minute of it. Damn fool old men with their fucking cocks and wandering hands. Even Holland wants me. I don't know what it is about me, but I draw them. I never knocked on their doors offering, they came to me, begging.

Holland hasn't pressed it yet. He follows me with his eyes, his hands occasionally resting on my shoulders, grazing close to my hair. Standing close, looming, breathing. Taking my space. Suffocating me.

I never wanted any of them. Then, Angel.

Just when I thought my life was on track, that I could live the normal life of lawyer who defends demons for a living, Angel came.

/ / Like a house with no foundations, unable to resist the first tremor of an earthquake, my existence had tumbled all around me in ruins./ /

One look into those dark, brooding eyes and I was lost.

Angel's eyes.

Dark, brooding, deep. I want to drown in them, die in them, forget everything in them: my life, my past, my pain. I want . . .

When I went to him for help, I thought . . . I thought what? That he would read my supplication as surrender? That he would understand that it wasn't just his help I needed, but his body as well? That in risking my life, my position to do what was *right* I was, in actuality, giving myself to him?

I don't know what I thought. All I know was that in those few days we worked together, I wanted, that's all.

When I went back to the firm, he wasn't even surprised. He didn't care enough about me to feel betrayed.

I am a fool.

And I can't get him out of my mind. I want him, I need him, and I can't have him.

Hell is obsession and I am obsessed. I can't escape and there is nothing to do. So I called the one person I thought might be able to help.

Angel's pet Watcher.

I didn't think he'd come. He didn't trust me when I called; he hardly said anything. Meet me at such and such a place at a certain time, I said. I was playing a hunch. I was guessing that the former Watcher lusted after his boss as much as I did. And that he needed release as much as me.

The motel is cheap and inelegant. I can't think of a worse place to be. It takes me back to my teacher. Not on campus, he whispered in my ear. Meet me here.

I am back *here*.

The watcher is moving through the night towards me, slowly, elegantly. My breath catches in my throat. He moves like the angel he will be for me tonight.

He is beautiful.

"You came."

"Yes," he answers. One word, spoken simply, a blade covered in velvet.

We look at each other for a long moment before turning to go inside. He looks at the cheapness of the hotel and dismisses it. After all, the place is not the point. The point is frustration. The point is fucking. The point is we have been caught in the spell of a vampire we can't have.

We are obsessed. Obsession: a hell with a voice, a face, a name.

Angel.

END