Topic response 18: Regret
Topic 18: Tell us about your number one regret.
Ficlet: Leave them On
Set in 'Angel' season 4, scene and some dialogue from 'Apocalypse Nowish
Wesley never told her about his fantasies. She sometimes asked him, "What do you want me to do?"" and he would answer her with his lips, his body, his hands, steering her into position. Lilah put up with it - hell, most times, she liked it - because of the nights (just as many, maybe more) - when all he wanted was to do what she wanted. Still, there was no sharing of buried desires, none of the stumbling confessions that most of the men she had known would have made long before. Even a simple "What are you thinking about?" was off-limits, after his last words on that first night. I wasn't thinking about you when you were here. Asking where his mind had gone would be an admission that she cared.
Of course, figuring out what a man wanted, when he wouldn't tell you anything, was hardly a challenge unique to Wesley. That was the way it was with men; the ones who thought they were so fucking mysterious almost never were. After the mess with the physics conference, for instance, Lilah was fairly certain that what Wesley wanted was to open his door and find a smiling girl with glasses and pigtails, ready to welcome him home.
At first, it was just a passing thought, and if it had been easy, she probably wouldn't have bothered. But she wandered, half-by-accident, into a designer-glasses store. The girl behind the counter had brown eyes, no hips or ass to speak of, and while Lilah browsed, she played with the ends of her long loose hair. Lilah found herself asking, "Red frames. . .teardrop shape. . .no, about this wide." That model was out of stock, in fact it had been discontinued, and considering the shape of Lilah's face, she ought to consider. . . "Why don't you just order me the fucking glasses I asked for, or do I need to talk with your manager?" The girl's mouth contorted, as though she were about to say something angry, but she bit it off, and told Lilah it would be her pleasure. She wondered if Fred Burkle would look like that if Wesley told her that she was a very pretty girl but honestly, he just wished she would stop talking about science for five minutes so that he could fuck her.
Lilah ordered the frames with plain glass; her own sight was 20-20. When they came in, she saw the moron shopgirl had been right. They didn't really suit her face, and Lilah considered abandoning the plan. If what she really wanted was Wesley's attention, she may as well let him walk in and find her, wearing nothing at all. But then, he might pull the righteous white knight act, call her a name and kick her out. Then he would, no doubt, lie down and indulge himself with thoughts of what he just, oh-so-nobly, passed up - which, while it might be moral victory for Lilah, would leave her not only rejected but deprived of a well-deserved orgasm. Or several.
No. She tied her hair into pigtails and undid the top buttons on a prim Oxford shirt. She slipped on a plain skirt with nothing underneath - for easy access, which he would want, and use. Last, she put on the red frames, and examined herself in the mirror. The whole effect was slightly ridiculous; Lilah hadn't often been taken for a schoolgirl, even when she was a schoolgirl. But then, that was the point. Not to let him live his fantasy, but to show him how absurd that fantasy was, how much better he had it with her. She used the key he had given her, once he realized there was no way to keep her out if she wanted in. And then Lilah sat, and she waited.
*
The room was dark, and it took him a moment to notice, or to admit that he noticed.
Why are you dressed like that?
Putting on an accent that she knew sounded nothing like Fred's. Isn't this what you like?. . .
Lilah... A harsh note, meant to convey exasperation. Eyes telling her something else. This was the right move. If she had come here naked, he would be able to look away, because he would know what he was missing.
Oh, forget about that evil witch, she drawled. Let's talk about me. I'm good and pure and science turns me on, and-and one day She clasped hands in front of her if I pray hard enough and eat all my vegetables, I just might just have hips.
Are you finished? And she looked up, and he was smiling, and she knew she had won. He could only muster the lamest defense. Her theories deserve attention. And then her hands were on him, lips touching his, and he pulled back only long enough to ask a question. You think you know me?
Better than she ever will.
Then he was on her, hands everywhere at once, pulling her onto the couch, into his lap. She started down the buttons of the Oxford, flashing the red silk of her bra. She remembered she had chosen it because it matched the glasses, only then recalled she was wearing them, and when she lifted her hand, she was only thinking of taking them out of the way, making it easier for them to kiss.
Then Wesley lifted his hand to touch her wrist, and he said three words.
Later, she would be furious. What the fuck was he doing, turning her bold move into his cheap fantasy? Later, in her mind, she would rip the frames off, throw them against the wall, hope they broke. She would lean in to bite his neck, then whisper that if he wanted the damn things so bad, he could just get up and go get them himself. She would do a hundred or a thousand fucking things, to make him laugh or apologize or beg for forgiveness or cry out in pain. Everything but what she really did, which was to lower her hand to his chest and keep kissing him. To raise her hips so that he could take advantage of that easy access and guide himself into her. To push her forehead to his, strain to meet his lips with the lenses pressed between them, and let him see it in her eyes, that she wanted this enough that, even for a second, she was willing to let him call the shots.
Lilah would always regret leaving the glasses on.
Ficlet: Leave them On
Set in 'Angel' season 4, scene and some dialogue from 'Apocalypse Nowish
Wesley never told her about his fantasies. She sometimes asked him, "What do you want me to do?"" and he would answer her with his lips, his body, his hands, steering her into position. Lilah put up with it - hell, most times, she liked it - because of the nights (just as many, maybe more) - when all he wanted was to do what she wanted. Still, there was no sharing of buried desires, none of the stumbling confessions that most of the men she had known would have made long before. Even a simple "What are you thinking about?" was off-limits, after his last words on that first night. I wasn't thinking about you when you were here. Asking where his mind had gone would be an admission that she cared.
Of course, figuring out what a man wanted, when he wouldn't tell you anything, was hardly a challenge unique to Wesley. That was the way it was with men; the ones who thought they were so fucking mysterious almost never were. After the mess with the physics conference, for instance, Lilah was fairly certain that what Wesley wanted was to open his door and find a smiling girl with glasses and pigtails, ready to welcome him home.
At first, it was just a passing thought, and if it had been easy, she probably wouldn't have bothered. But she wandered, half-by-accident, into a designer-glasses store. The girl behind the counter had brown eyes, no hips or ass to speak of, and while Lilah browsed, she played with the ends of her long loose hair. Lilah found herself asking, "Red frames. . .teardrop shape. . .no, about this wide." That model was out of stock, in fact it had been discontinued, and considering the shape of Lilah's face, she ought to consider. . . "Why don't you just order me the fucking glasses I asked for, or do I need to talk with your manager?" The girl's mouth contorted, as though she were about to say something angry, but she bit it off, and told Lilah it would be her pleasure. She wondered if Fred Burkle would look like that if Wesley told her that she was a very pretty girl but honestly, he just wished she would stop talking about science for five minutes so that he could fuck her.
Lilah ordered the frames with plain glass; her own sight was 20-20. When they came in, she saw the moron shopgirl had been right. They didn't really suit her face, and Lilah considered abandoning the plan. If what she really wanted was Wesley's attention, she may as well let him walk in and find her, wearing nothing at all. But then, he might pull the righteous white knight act, call her a name and kick her out. Then he would, no doubt, lie down and indulge himself with thoughts of what he just, oh-so-nobly, passed up - which, while it might be moral victory for Lilah, would leave her not only rejected but deprived of a well-deserved orgasm. Or several.
No. She tied her hair into pigtails and undid the top buttons on a prim Oxford shirt. She slipped on a plain skirt with nothing underneath - for easy access, which he would want, and use. Last, she put on the red frames, and examined herself in the mirror. The whole effect was slightly ridiculous; Lilah hadn't often been taken for a schoolgirl, even when she was a schoolgirl. But then, that was the point. Not to let him live his fantasy, but to show him how absurd that fantasy was, how much better he had it with her. She used the key he had given her, once he realized there was no way to keep her out if she wanted in. And then Lilah sat, and she waited.
*
The room was dark, and it took him a moment to notice, or to admit that he noticed.
Why are you dressed like that?
Putting on an accent that she knew sounded nothing like Fred's. Isn't this what you like?. . .
Lilah... A harsh note, meant to convey exasperation. Eyes telling her something else. This was the right move. If she had come here naked, he would be able to look away, because he would know what he was missing.
Oh, forget about that evil witch, she drawled. Let's talk about me. I'm good and pure and science turns me on, and-and one day She clasped hands in front of her if I pray hard enough and eat all my vegetables, I just might just have hips.
Are you finished? And she looked up, and he was smiling, and she knew she had won. He could only muster the lamest defense. Her theories deserve attention. And then her hands were on him, lips touching his, and he pulled back only long enough to ask a question. You think you know me?
Better than she ever will.
Then he was on her, hands everywhere at once, pulling her onto the couch, into his lap. She started down the buttons of the Oxford, flashing the red silk of her bra. She remembered she had chosen it because it matched the glasses, only then recalled she was wearing them, and when she lifted her hand, she was only thinking of taking them out of the way, making it easier for them to kiss.
Then Wesley lifted his hand to touch her wrist, and he said three words.
Later, she would be furious. What the fuck was he doing, turning her bold move into his cheap fantasy? Later, in her mind, she would rip the frames off, throw them against the wall, hope they broke. She would lean in to bite his neck, then whisper that if he wanted the damn things so bad, he could just get up and go get them himself. She would do a hundred or a thousand fucking things, to make him laugh or apologize or beg for forgiveness or cry out in pain. Everything but what she really did, which was to lower her hand to his chest and keep kissing him. To raise her hips so that he could take advantage of that easy access and guide himself into her. To push her forehead to his, strain to meet his lips with the lenses pressed between them, and let him see it in her eyes, that she wanted this enough that, even for a second, she was willing to let him call the shots.
Lilah would always regret leaving the glasses on.