RockStarPeach

My darling pal, ash_carpenter  has been writing stuff in which I think she was being a little bit mean to my bestest boy, so I needed to write something where Wes was mean to Lindsey, you know, to defend his honour and whatnot *g*.  I know I threatened/promised that Wes would smack him around and screw him in the ass, but, umm…. Oops?

It went horribly awry.  I suck at this game *g* You win, ash!  For now…

Also, thank you muchly to my bestest angelstoy for providing me with the absolutely freakin' GORGEOUS manip for my icon.  *smooches you*

 

Title:  Returning the favour

Pairing:  Uh, Wes/Lindsey… Spike is there…

Summary:  Instead of being taken to the interrogation room to find what Lindsey knows during ‘Power Play’, he’s taken somewhere a bit more private.  Some lines taken from the episode.

Rating:  Adult

 

 

Returning the Favour

 

Lindsey paces back and forth across the living room, wearing a hole through the thin carpet.  Not that it would take much to wear through it; the carpet is shit.  The apartment is shit.  He really had been an ass to Spike, but the vampire was so desperate, is so desperate, to be needed, and Lindsey had had fun pushing it, seeing what the blond would put up with.  Turns out it was quite a bit.  And all to feel like he mattered.

 

And now Spike is going to kill him.  Okay, probably not kill him kill him, as he’s pretty sure that Spike is still under the delusion that his hat is mostly white, but he’s certain that he’s in for a world of hurt.  He knows they want information from him.  Knows Angel isn’t quite the big strapping hero he used to be, and they want to know what he knows about it. 

 

They could do all this at Wolfram and Hart, he knows, but he also remembers a warning Spike gave him when they first met.  ‘I get really violent when I’m being played,’ the vampire had said, as a surprisingly strong body had gripped him and held him and pushed him, close too close, against the solid brick of a strip club wall.

 

And now he knows he’s here because Spike wants revenge.

 

Some amount of time ago, he doesn’t have the slightest clue really how long (chloroform will do that to you) he had been sitting in his cozy little cell, minding his own business, fantasizing about all the delightfully naughty ways he could torture Angel before killing him.  He had come to face down over the tattered sofa, ass in the air over the arm, bits of wood not quite covered up by foam jabbing him uncomfortably.

 

He’s alone here, and hasn’t been able to leave the apartment.  The door is locked from the outside (and that must be new) and all the widows, tiny as they are, have bars on them.  So he occupies himself with trying not to imagine what Spike will do when he decides to show up, and waits.

 

He hears the door open and stiffens, then forces himself to relax.  If Spike knows he’s nervous, it’ll be that much worse, he thinks.  And he really doesn’t know anything about Angel.  Not that he’ll admit to that.  No, he’ll just pretend he’s being strong, holding out, not quivering inside like a little girl, in more ways than one, when he gets beat down by the tiny little vampire.

 

And just as he’s perfecting his ‘cool’ face, Wesley walks in and he loses it.  He snorts, then says, “You?” with an air of superiority Angel would be hard pressed to match.  “He sent you?”

 

Wesley ignores him, doesn’t even bother to lock the door behind himself, heads to the kitchen and opens the fridge, taking out a beer and twisting off the top, tossing it carelessly into the sink, taking a long, slow swallow.  Lindsey is a little bit insulted.  Who does this guy think he is?  Lindsey could be walking out that door right now.  Wes really shouldn’t be so god damned cocky.  What would be stopping him?  What is stopping him, he wonders, as he watches the other man’s throat work around the cool drink.

 

He shakes off the odd feeling that’s grabbed him and continues his one sided conversation, unable to stop himself.  “Seriously.  If you wanted answers I’d have thought that you’d send someone with a chance in hell of getting them.”  He tries to smile cruelly, but knows he doesn’t quite pull it off.

 

It doesn’t matter anyway, as Wes still isn’t looking at him.  He’s standing in the kitchen, beer in hand, looking at some spot over the door to the bedroom.  Lindsey stands quietly, apparently run out of things to say, for several minutes until Wesley finally puts his bottle down on the kitchen counter. 

 

And as stupid as Lindsey felt talking to someone who wasn’t talking back to him, he thinks that was better than standing, rooted to the ground, in silence, waiting for Wesley to acknowledge his existence.  He should have tried to leave as soon as the door opened.  As soon as he saw it was only Wes that came in.  He should try to leave now.  The other man couldn’t stop him. Probably.  So why is he still there?

 

And then Wesley looks at him.  Hard blue eyes staring directly into his own, and he freezes.  Stops shuffling his feet, stops stretching his neck, stops drumming his fingers over his hips and leaves his thumbs still inside his front pockets, and stares back.  Because he can’t do anything else.

 

“Sit down, Lindsey,” he hears the other man command, because he isn’t fooling himself that it’s a request, and he obeys.  Huh.  Apparently he can do something besides stand there like a moron.  Good to know.

 

The couch isn’t comfortable; not in the position he’s in, ass right at the edge of the under-stuffed cushion, back ramrod straight, hands placed demurely on his knees for lack of anything better to do with them, but he’s pretty sure that Wesley doesn’t care about his comfort. 

 

Wesley only wants Lindsey sitting down, lower than he is, so that Lindsey has to look up to talk to him, or to hear him talk, to make him feel inferior by position in the room alone.  And the more uncomfortable Lindsey is, the better for Wesley’s position.  Lindsey knows all this, was a lawyer for fucks sake, and a fuckin’ good one.  Made a living out of intimidating other people and making them his bitches. 

 

So he curses himself for twice the fool anyone else would have been for tilting his chin down towards the floor, and looking up at Wesley with only his eyes, waiting for the man to make his next move.

 

Wesley doesn’t smile or smirk or falter in his smooth line of steps from the kitchen to the living room, or give any sort of other sign that he’s pleased with Lindsey’s response.  No, that would have been giving away that he had any doubts he would be listened to, and Lindsey is starting to get that Wesley is very good at this game.  At least, he hopes it’s a game.

 

Wesley stops when he’s standing next to the chair across from the couch, and continues to look at Lindsey.  Lindsey knows this trick too, and he raises his chin a little in defiance, meeting Wesley’s gaze with his whole face, but doesn’t stand up.  That would be going too far, and though he knows he could take Wes if he had to, there are others on his side that he doesn’t really want to go up against, so he figures it’s easier to ride this out than face what he knows he’ll be up against if reinforcements are called in.

 

Lindsey is surprised when Wes doesn’t raise his eyebrow or shake his head or make some snappy comment about Lindsey misbehaving, and it’s a good two or three minutes more of staring, and he’s pretty sure Wesley doesn’t blink at all, and he’s starting to feel the second or third inkling in the last 5 minutes that maybe the A-team is smarter than he thought, sending this man to deal with him, because Lindsey looks down. 

 

Drops his eyes like a puppy who’s been hit on the nose with a rolled up newspaper for going on the carpet, and if Wes doesn’t stop looking at him like that soon, he thinks that simile might be a little too apt. 

 

Thankfully, Wesley sits down on the chair an acceptable amount of time later.  Acceptable in that it was both short and long enough for Wesley to be sure that Lindsey wasn’t going to look up again without being addressed.

 

“Look at me Lindsey.”  Another direct order, and he can’t help buy obey, only this time he’s going to put some style into it.  Let Wesley know that he still has some balls, even if they have shrunk to the size of peanuts since that first barely there glance he received upon Wes’s entry into the basement.

 

He looks up and hides the shaking in his hands by linking his fingers together and placing them behind his head, pushing back into the couch, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee, ghost of a smile on his face as he tries not to fear what the repercussions of this act of rebellion will be.

 

But Wesley only smiles.  A genuine one, it appears, that reaches his eyes and softens his face, and makes him look, just for a fraction of a second, like the young man Lindsey met a few years ago, happy and sweet and naïve, following Angel and Cordelia around, even more desperate for a place to belong than Spike was.  But the smile is gone almost before it is noticed, and Lindsey knows that this strong, hard, annoyingly handsome man in front of him is not the same as the one in his memories.

 

And as Lindsey feels his cock twitch in his pants, and as Wesley’s eyes make no secret of drifting slowly, studiously over his top half to land firmly on his groin, Lindsey wonders if that’s a bad thing.

 

Lindsey knows his eyes are hooded, his breathing slightly heavy, his heart rate increased.  Faced with someone who can dominate him so easily with nothing but a look he can’t help but get excited, but he’s not happy about it.  Especially when Wesley’s eyes shoot up suddenly to meet his and he blinks and looks down again dammit, and he knows that he can’t hide his unwanted arousal from Wesley.

 

“You’re a very attractive man, Lindsey,”  he hears, and looks up again, sure that the shock at hearing Wesley admit to thinking that is clear across his face. 

 

“But I’m sure you’ve heard that more than your fair share of times.” 

 

“Yeah, I’m a regular fuckin’ Brad Pitt,” Lindsey says, in his characteristic way, that implies both carelessness and pride.  He also can’t help pushing his pelvis forward just a little bit and looking over at Wesley, covertly he hopes, to see if the gesture has had any impact.

 

Seems not.

 

“What do you know about what’s happening with Angel?”

 

“What?” Lindsey asks, trying to put just the right amount of sarcasm into it.  “Big white knight suddenly not lookin’ so shiny anymore?”

 

He’s disappointed to see that Wesley doesn’t seem phased at all by Lindsey’s lack of desire to cooperate.

 

“I don’t know anything about it, Wes.  Really.”  He says with a mock grin, and he’s not lying.  The only thing he can possibly come up with is that the pressure has gotten to him.  Or the power.  And hey, either one would be great for Lindsey, because if Angel is already on his way down then it will be that much easier on Lindsey to keep him there.

 

“Do you know anything about this?” Wesley asks, and shows him a drawing he’s pulled out of his pocket.

 

“Where’d you get that?” he asks, but doesn’t really expect and answer and doesn’t get one.  “No way,” he shakes his head.

 

“What does that mean?” Wesley asks with a sigh, and Lindsey can tell it’s meant to connote a boredom with the situation that Wesley doesn’t really feel.

 

Lindsey sighs too, then, and decides he might as well tell Wesley what he knows.  Not like it will help.  Like he said, there was no way.

 

“The Circle of the Black Thorn.  That’s their symbol.  And there’s no way they would take Angel.”  And Lindsey proceeds to tell Wesley everything he knows about the Circle, and about why they wouldn’t take Angel, and even considers making some things up, because as soon as Wes is happy about what he knows Lindsey can get the hell out of here.

 

He almost manages to stand up, thinking that since his speech is over, he’ll be heading back to Wolfram and Hart, but is stopped when Wesley speaks.  “I’m not sure if I believe you or not, Lindsey.”  And why the hell does he keep saying his name like that!?

 

“I think it’s entirely possible that you know much more than you’re telling me.  And given your feelings toward Angel, I’m fairly certain of it.  On a strictly personal level you want to see him fall, and you’re not above holding back information that would help us, and in turn help him.”

 

Well, nobody ever said that Wesley wasn’t bright.  Just so happens he can also be wrong on occasion.  Like now.  Lindsey thinks about telling him so, but doesn’t figure Wesley will believe him, so saves his breath.

 

“Go to the bedroom,” Wesley orders.

 

Lindsey doesn’t move, just stares at Wesley and scrunches up his face, wondering what the hell Wesley is up to now.

 

“I really hate having to repeat myself, Lindsey.  So if you would get up off the couch and make your way to the bedroom, I guarantee it will be a lot easier on the both of us.”

 

A shiver runs down Lindsey’s spine, as he is entirely sure that Wesley does hate to repeat himself, and a part of him wants to find out how much, but not a big enough part, it turns out to stop him from getting up off the couch and doing as Wesley says.

 

The walk seems exceptionally long, considering the hallway is so short, but eventually they make it to the bedroom.

 

“Good,” Wes says once they’re there.  “Now strip.”

 

Lindsey whips around to face Wesley, mouth open, eyes challenging.  And it seems that challenge means nothing to Wesley, because he simply he warns, “Don’t make me repeat myself,” and Lindsey doesn’t.

 

“Good,” Wesley says again, once Lindsey is naked and Lindsey gets an odd feeling of pride at pleasing the other man.  “Now get on the bed, please.”  Lindsey doesn’t even wait for a warning this time, just does as he’s instructed and Wesley nods approvingly.

 

Lindsey watches quietly, with a growing excitement and curiosity as Wesley sits down on the bed, legs hanging over the side, and moves to open the drawer on the bedside table.  “I want something from you, Lindsey,” he says and Lindsey looks quickly down to Wesley’s groin and then back up again to his face.

 

“Don’t flatter yourself.”  He hears the derision in Wesley’s tone, but can’t quite tell if it’s honest.  “I want information, and I believe that this is the quickest and most efficient way to ensure your cooperation.”

 

Lindsey just has time to wonder what exactly Wes means by that, as he watches him reach into the drawer and pull out a pair of surgical gloves and a tube of lubricant.

 

He pulls on the gloves and begins to unscrew the cap, and stops.  Tilts his head slightly, ear in the direction of the bedroom doorway.  Then his head snaps toward the door and just as quickly turns back to Lindsey and squeezes some of the lube out onto his fingers.

 

Lindsey figures somebody must be there, and he figures it’s probably Spike, but Wes hasn’t said anything about it and probably wouldn’t appreciate it if Lindsey did, so he tries to ignore it, and it isn’t hard to block out everything else the second Wesley wraps his tight, warm fist around his cock and starts pumping.

 

Wesley isn’t using any finesse, showing no real skill, except the skill designed to bring the recipient to orgasm as quickly as possible, and Lindsey figures that’s a pretty damn good skill in itself, because it’s been less than 30 seconds from the first touch of latex on skin and Lindsey is panting and thrusting and ready to shoot – and Wesley stops.

 

“What the….” he asks in aggravation and disbelief, even as he continues to thrust his hips up to meet touches that aren’t there anymore.  His eyes are glazed and he’s trying hard to focus on Wesley as the man simply drops his arms to his sides, unreadable expression still trained on Lindsey, as if daring him to continue the protest.  He doesn’t.

 

“What else do you know about The Circle, Lindsey?” 

 

Lindsey says nothing, hoping Wesley hears more in his silence than he would in any actual words.   Narrows his eyes and hopes they say ‘fuck off’ just as surely as lips aren’t.

 

Then the bastard moves.  Not far, and not fast, just moves his arms, his hands, so that they’re out in front of him, where Lindsey can get a good view and slowly moulds the thumb and forefinger on his left hand into a small circle, and almost casually slides that circle back and forth across the index finger of his right hand. 

 

His eyes don’t leave Lindsey’s the entire time, and he hasn’t even flinched and he’s making it very clear what Lindsey will get if cooperates.  No threats if he doesn’t, unless of course you count not getting off, but Lindsey knows he shouldn’t count that.  He could leave right now, nobody would stop him… expect maybe Spike, if that’s who it is out in the hallway.  And he could get himself off when he got someplace more comfortable than this, or better yet Eve could do it, because Lindsey’s not hard up and doesn’t need Wes for this, and why isn’t he leaving again?

 

“I told you, jackass,” he grits out from between clenched teeth, somewhat disappointed in himself that Wesley has managed to pull any kind of reaction from him.  He smirks and continues, “I don’t know a god damned thing.  Now either fucking finish me off, or bring me back to my cell, cause I’ve got a game of solitaire that I need to get back to.”

 

Right, he’s an idiot.  That’s why he hasn’t left.  He realizes he’s an idiot before the words are out of his mouth, even before he sees the brief flash of anger cross Wesley’s beautiful features before they smooth out to detached once more. 

 

“That was the wrong answer, I’m afraid, Lindsey,” he says in cool, crisp tones, and Lindsey thinks that that is the single most British thing he’s ever heard come out of Wes’s mouth.

 

He sees the man reach into the bedside table again, and barely has time to wonder what he’s pulling out now before the other stands up with his loot.  No show is made of the procured items or their subsequent usage, as Wesley methodically attaches a clamp to each of Lindsey nipples, leaving their connecting chain loose across his bare chest.

 

Lindsey tries and fails to hold back a snort.  As punishments go, this isn’t one, and Wesley still has a lot to learn in this department, he thinks.  That is, until Wesley pushes back to survey his handiwork, gives the chain an experimental tug and shakes his head, as if chastising a kindergartner for sloppy use of paper mache. 

 

“This will never do, I’m afraid,”  Lindsey hears just before a hand reaches for one of his nipples and the knob on the clamp is turned once, twice, three times, and Lindsey bites his lip at the pain of it, but doesn’t cry out, because it’s bad, but not that bad yet, and that’s when Wesley stops and does the same thing to the other nipple.

 

Wesley gives the chain another tug, graces Lindsey’s chest with what he assumes is a considering look, flicks one nipple sharply with his middle finger and Lindsey hisses in pain.  Then the fucker nods, and actually smiles a bit, apparently really fuckin’ pleased with himself, and Lindsey is almost pissed off enough to put a stop to this bizarre scenario, but a soft gasp from the bedroom door stops him.

 

Obviously Spike is still there, and obviously he’s enjoying what he’s seeing, and something about that gives Lindsey a perverse kind of pleasure, and now he’s more determined than ever to see this thing through to the end.  That, and the fact that though the nipple clamps hurt, it’s the kind of pain that, for him, will enhance pleasure, not detract from it, and he’s just now gets that that was by design.

 

He really is an idiot, and Wesley really is good at this. 

 

He watches Wesley resume his position at the side of the bed, watches him pick up the discarded tube of lube and spread some more over the latex gloves covering his hand, and then Lindsey gets a warning of, “Let’s try this again, shall we?” and Wesley’s hand is on him.

 

He doesn’t try to fight it; knows it’s useless, because he may not like Wesley very much, but he’s not blind and the man is one gorgeous son of a bitch, and it seems that this is one of those times that his dick is not attached to his brain.  Fuckin’ dick.  Ha.

 

He closes his eyes and lets the feeling of the strong hand gripping him, working him toward climax, nimble fingers working over his tip and hard thumb sliding down the prominent vein.  He knows he won’t last long, and he doesn’t care.  In fact, he’s happy about it, because the sooner this is over, well, the sooner this is over, and he can hide behind his pants and his cell door and not think about Wesley pounding into his ass with what he just knows must be a giant cock, and oh, god!  He’s that much closer.

 

He tries to hold back, even though he wants to give in almost more than anything, because he doesn’t want to give Wesley the satisfaction.  Stupid, he knows, as Wes doesn’t give a shit about his pleasure, only the information he thinks he can give.

 

He feels another sharp, quick tug on the nipple clamps and Wesley’s hand speeds up, and his grip tightens and his fingers play a delicious pattern across Lindsey’s hot flesh and he’s so close he’s certain he’s about the shoot and all the fighting has only made it that much better.   And then Wes abruptly stops the movement of his hand.  He doesn’t get up, or even take his hand away, just stops it from moving, presses his thumb firmly against the bottom of Lindsey’s shaft and doesn’t move. 

 

Lindsey lets out a distinct sound of disappointment as his orgasm is yet again cut off, but he doesn’t give his tormenter the satisfaction of hearing him say ‘fuck, please don’t stop,’ like he wants to, and he allows himself and absurd moment of pride. 

 

It feels like hours before Wesley starts moving his hand again, so, so slowly, and says “Tell me Lindsey.  What else do you know about The Circle of the Black Thorn?”

 

“What’ll…” he pants, trying to catch his breath.  “What’ll I get.. If I… don’t answer right again?  Huh Wes?”  He doesn’t have to try for the cocky grin that fixes itself on his face.  He knows Wesley’s game now, has known it all along really.  Lindsey gets what he wants, when Wes gets the information he needs.  And Lindsey is prepared to go along with it, to a point.  To the point where he gets off.  Because even though he keeps telling Wesley that he doesn’t know a fuckin’ thing, the retard doesn’t seem to understand that.

 

Not his fault if he’s the only winner here.  “What else you got in that drawer that you wanna use on me.”

 

Wesley raises an eyebrow this time at Lindsey’s boldness, and it only fuels the fire.  “And how exactly do you know what Spike’s keeping in there, anyway?  You and him have fun with all those naughty toys?”  He tries to lean over to get a look at the drawer, which Wesley has conveniently left open, but for all his sudden cockiness doesn’t dare actually get up from the bed.

 

“Oh, I know what you want, Lindsey,” Wes says, but it’s a slightly distant sound, as Lindsey’s brain is still wrapped around that damned drawer.  “And you’re not going to get it.  Not until I get what I want anyway.”

 

“What the hell do you know about what I want?” Lindsey hears himself asking, and he sort of wishes he would just shut up and let Wesley give it to him, but no.  There’s that damn part of him that refuses to play the good little boy, even if he really thinks that that's what he is now.

 

Sure, he wishes Angel dead; who doesn’t?  But he really does want to take the senior partners down, and would happily give up any secrets he thought might help with that.  But there’s nothing.  Nothing he hasn’t already given them, and he really is sure that Angel has not sunk low enough for the Black Thorn to accept him as a member.

 

His musings are cut short when he once again feels that same, good so good hand working him, and he gasps and thrusts and his eyes shoot open and he hears Wesley tell him, in that same damned level voice, “I know that you want me to do this.  And this,” he adds as he tugs a little gently on the nipple chain, and Lindsey lets out a small moan of appreciation, but not the same gasp of pleasure/pain that Wesley and Spike, and himself,  found so delightful last time.

 

“And I know you’re just aching to know what’s left in that drawer,” Wesley says, with a particularly hard tug to Lindsey’s penis that makes his hips falter in their rhythm.  “I know that you’re just hoping that I’ve got a dildo in there that I’m going to take out if you tell me one more thing that I don’t think is the truth.”

 

Lindsey groans again, clenches his hands into fists at his side and tries desperately to keep the movement of his groin under control.  Wesley is right.  Of course he is.  Lindsey wants it so bad he can almost taste it, and he’s just about to say something, anything to piss Wesley off so that he gets the promised synthetic cock shoved hard and deep inside him when Wesley’s voice interrupts his thoughts.

 

“But it’s not going to happen, Lindsey,” Wesley says, seemingly reading his mind.

 

“Then why the hell should I tell you anything?” Lindsey asks, cursing himself once again for letting his anger shine through in his tone and expression.  “If you’ve already decided you’re not giving me what I want, why would I give you what you want?”

 

And damn.  Maybe it wasn’t that Wes was so good at this, as he was just really bad at it.  If Wes had had any doubts about what Lindsey wanted, Lindsey had just wiped them out.  So much for playing it cool.

 

Wesley smiles at him for the second time that night, but this time it doesn’t reach his eyes, almost cruel as he reveals only the slightest hint of perfectly straight, white teeth.  “You’ll give me what I want, Lindsey, for simply that reason.  I want it.”

 

Lindsey can feel the build up in his balls yet again as Wesley speeds up his fist, but doesn’t allow himself to get excited this time, doesn’t even think that this will end in anything but frustration and humiliation. 

 

He doesn’t try to hold back this time either; he’s already learned that lesson.  Just sits back and takes whatever Wesley gives him, accepting that he has absolutely no control.

 

This time Wesley draws it out.  The strokes are long and slow and his fingers take time to play and caress flesh and every time Lindsey’s breathing and movements begin to become erratic Wesley slows down again, and Lindsey is pretty sure that he’s going to go crazy.  Until Wesley starts to jack him hard and fast and Lindsey can feel his orgasm rushing at him and he’s making up some sort of convincing lie to tell the other man when he asks what Lindsey knows so that he’ll be allowed to finish.

 

And just as Lindsey is one more fleeting touch from paradise Wesley grabs his balls and squeezes.  Hard.  Lindsey cries out in pain, and actually cries and tears are running down his face and he’s pretty sure that he’s going to need to get his testicles surgically reattached, but his prick doesn’t seem to mind because it’s still hard and he still needs to come.

 

 

“Tell me what you know,” Wesley says, voice full of warning and the promise of relief.

 

Lindsey is desperate, and says, desperately, “I don’t know anything.  I told you.  Please.  Let me….”

 

“Let you what?  Go?  Come?”  Wesley only crushes his precious handful a tiny bit more.

 

“Yes!  Please!  Please.”  And Lindsey is still crying and hates himself for it.

 

Wesley seems to take mercy and lets go of his balls, but makes no move to touch his aching prick, just watches Lindsey’s face twist in pain as the circulation begins to return to his sac, and Lindsey thinks he would punch Wesley right now, if he could get up to do it, but as it is, Lindsey isn’t going anywhere for a while. 

 

He just looks at Wes expectantly, begging the other man to touch him again, begging with his eyes this time, because his mouth has had enough of that for now but Wes just gives him a look that says ‘you can’t be serious!’ and the words that come from his mouth match the expression.

 

“I’ve gotten everything I’m going to get from you, Lindsey.  Why would I do anything for you now?”

 

He pissed off now.  “I already fuckin’ told you, I don’t know anything.  If I did, I would tell you.  I’m not lying.”

 

“Oh, I believe you,” Wesley tells him, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  “I’ve believed you from the start.”

 

“Then what the hell was this all about?!”  He’s really pissed off now.   

 

“You played a friend of mine for a fool, Lindsey.  Tried to kill another.”  He snaps off the latex gloves and tosses them into the waste bin next to the bed.  “This was about returning the favour.”

 

Lindsey still can’t move, and it’s just as much now to do with this new light that has been shed on Wesley’s character as it does the pain in his cock and balls and, damn those nipple clamps are starting to feel a little snug.  Who knew Wesley had this in him?  It’s kind of a turn on.  And, oh, shit, more arousal is not helping with Lindsey’s predicament. 

 

Looks like Wesley notices.  “If I were you, I’d want to take care of that as soon as possible.  Looks painful.”  Wes sure is helpful, Lindsey thinks, as the man standing next to the bed places one foot on it, and rests his elbow on the bent knee, and looks at Lindsey’s cock.  The watcher wants a show.

 

Lindsey gives him one, but not a good one.  He doesn’t think it matters really; Wes has already had a damn good show tonight, this is just the encore.  He unselfconsciously moves his hand to his dick (because after everything Wes has already seen, this is nothing) and strokes himself quickly, efficiently toward a substantial climax that makes him cry out more from pain than from pleasure, but the pleasure is there too, and the pain only intensifies it.

 

Lindsey realises his eyes have closed during his self gratification, and now that the pressure isn’t weighing so heavy in his balls, he’s gained a range of motion.  He manages to open his eyes, push himself up slightly on the bed and reach a hand across his chest to remove the clamps.  And again the thought strikes him that he could have done this an hour ago, and he’s not looking too closely at the reasons he didn’t. 

 

He lets his eyes travel from Wesley’s, down the man’s body, slowly, and up again to land on his displayed crotch.  Wesley still hasn’t taken his leg down from the bed, and the pose is doing nothing to hide the obvious evidence of his excitement.  Lindsey smirks.

 

“This had nothing to do with your friends,” he offers, in a knowing tone.  He opens his legs a little more, tilts his pelvis slightly to give Wes a better view of what he knows he wants.  “You got off on this.  Well,” he lets out a small laugh, “you haven’t gotten off yet, but…” and he pushes his tailbone into the mattress so that his ass lifts up, and a baseball bat to the head would be more subtle, and Lindsey’s spent cock gives an interested twitch.

 

Either Lindsey is reading the man wrong, or he needs to give Wesley even more credit for being way better at whatever this is than Lindsey has ever been, because Wesley only snorts through his nose, takes his leg down and says, “Please.  I wouldn’t fuck you with Angel’s dick,” before turning and walking out the door.

 

Lindsey isn’t all that upset about it, really.  Now that he knows what the man has to offer, he’s pretty sure he can find some other ways of pissing him off enough to ensure some more little revenge trips like this one. 

 

He gets up to find his clothes when he hears voices from just outside the bedroom door.

 

“I’ve gotten all I’m going to get from him.”

 

“So I heard, pet,” and he can hear Spike’s smirk, and wonders how Wesley will take to the teasing with the mood he’s in, but he only laughs.  It’s a real, honest laugh, and Lindsey can’t remember the last time he heard that sound from the ex-watcher.  They’re good for each other, he thinks.  Even if they’re not fucking.

 

“But it seems like you didn’t give him anything.”  The tone is quieter this time, more suggestive.  He sees the vague shadows in the hall move closer together but can’t make out what they’re doing.  “I’d be happy to help you out with that, love.”

 

Okay, so maybe they are fucking.

 

Wesley laughs again, and Lindsey thinks again that it suits him.  “You’re very generous Spike, but I think I’ll manage.  Besides, It looks as though you have very little to offer at the moment.”

 

“With you puttin’ on a show like that can you blame me?” And now Lindsey can hear the leer, and Lindsey feels a rush of power at the knowledge that Spike jerked off watching Wesley touch him.  Power and something else.

 

Lindsey is halfway into his pants when he’s jolted out of his thoughts by Spike sticking his head into the room and barking out a sharp “Oi.  Tosser.  Get your kit on.  You’re going back to lock-up.”

 

Lindsey shakes his head slightly, but allows himself a small smile and does what he’s told.  He thinks he could get good at that.

 

END