This is not what he expected, the last thing he might have expected, when he had agreed to come help Angel rebuild the old hotel. He just knew that he was looking for something - something to do, something to be, something away from where he had been, what he had been doing.
His back and arms ached from exertion, and his hands were sore from the grip of his tools and the small missteps that occurred because his depth perception was for shit with the patch that itched over the vacant space of his missing eye. Yet, there was a comfort in the physical pain of labor, aided by the familiar slide of his hands along the grain of the wood, the shaft of his hammer, the bite of nails and screws held tightly in his fingertips. There was a reassurance in using his hands to create, to build - and if occasionally the blood that stained his hands was literal to match the metaphorical, it was a small price to pay.
This was something he was good at, something he could control. His body remembered what his eyes couldn't see, and his fingers flew, as an extension of his will - shaping, changing, and building. Never, in his mind, had he pictured them doing this, though. His hammer lay forgotten on the floor next to him, where he kneeled in the sawdust at Angel's feet, gripping the iron shaft of Angel's cock in his hands.
He stroked along the length of it, and Angel's hips bucked up, away from the sawhorse he was pressed against, while his fingers tightened against the wood, until Xander thought it might crack from the strain.
Xander didn't know how he had gotten to this point, or what he was trying to build, but he did know that sometimes creativity required you to just go with your inspiration.
Series: 3
Stories: 97
Chapters: 105
Word count: 156780
Reviews: 0