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| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: Untitled Congel Spanking Fic Author: Alex Pairing: Angel/Connor Rating: NC-17 Setting: Post-Origin There was a point, somewhere around midnight, that Connor just gave up. Angel threw him onto the training mat and Connor simply lay there, staring up at the ceiling of Wolfram & Hart. “Up you get,” said Angel. “No,” said Connor. Angel loomed over him. “Come on. There’s hours yet, and you’re starting to get the hang –” “No.” Angel recognised that stubborn set of jaw, the determination. Some things never changed. “Connor,” he said, sitting down next to him, “you can do this. You’ve just got to trust me…” Connor rolled onto his stomach and rested his head on his forearms. “Dude,” came his muffled voice, “what part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?” “You know,” said Angel, considering the temper tantrum before him, “I probably should’ve done this a long time ago.” “Done what? – Hey!” But Connor wasn’t quick enough, and Angel had himself a lapful of angry boy. He let one sharp slap fall on the wriggling backside; Connor swore and twisted round in Angel’s grip. “I knew it! I knew this whole thing was some sick plan you’d cooked up – let me go!” He struggled, his full weight against Angel’s legs, his face red and furious. “That’s more like it,” said Angel. “Feeling mad?” “I’m gonna report you.” “Mad enough to kill me?” Connor stopped struggling. Angel could hear his breath come fast and light. “I said, are you mad enough -” “No.” Angel relaxed his grip. Maybe there wasn’t any point after all, because this Connor wasn’t his Connor… “Dude,” said Connor softly. “What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?” Angel took him to the apartment, because this was just for him and his son. Nobody else. Just this once. “Nice,” said Connor, looking out the window at the skyline. Angel stood behind him, feeling the warmth off his skin. Connor turned suddenly, and they were inches apart. “Bet you sold your soul for that view.” “Sold it for love,” said Angel. “What are you going to sell yours for?” Connor frowned. Played with the hem of his sleeves, looking for all the world like a child. “Dunno,” he said. “My family, I guess. I mean, what else is there?” He looked like he expected an answer, but Angel went and sat on the bed, laying his hands on his knees. Connor looked at him uncertainly. “Ok, how…?” “However you want.” “I mean, just so you know… I’m not… I don’t know why…” “We’re just taking a break from training,” said Angel. “It’s a way to let off steam. Or get you worked up. Whichever.” “Yeah, right,” Connor muttered. “If you’re one of those freaky Spartans, cos they were always working themselves up bare-assed…” “And they always won.” Connor gave him a look that said – don’t push this. Then he stood there, still playing with his sleeves, still looking like a child. “Clothes off,” said Angel, and was rewarded with a mutinous glare. It was a step in the right direction. Connor yanked his t-shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor. “Fold it, thank you.” “Anal.” “All your clothes off.” “I’m not stupid,” said Connor, but he was certainly cross. His hands fumbled at his flies, until he gave up and dragged the combats down over his hips. He ended up sitting on the floor, a tangle of shoes and pants, kicking his legs until they were clear. He folded the combats, too, and stood up; hands at the waistband of the last frontier between him and shame. “Wait,” said Angel. Connor looked torn between disappointment and relief. Angel kept his eyes on Connor’s face. “I’ll do that. Come over here.” Connor came. Stood before his father with his eyes downcast and his blood rushing through his veins so that Angel’s mouth watered. Angel reached up and touched Connor’s face. “Are you sure?” Connor blinked. Drew his body taut, like Angel had seen him do before, and clenched his fists. “Just get on with it.” So Angel did. With one hand, he pulled Connor forward and over his lap, and Connor fell gracefully. Angel rested his hand in the small of Connor’s back and counted the pulse that beat every inch under his son’s skin. Then he tapped Connor’s bottom. “Up.” Connor lifted his hips, and Angel slid the boxers down, letting them rest around Connor’s knees. Connor breathed in. Angel let his hand move down and over the rise of Connor’s ass, feeling the softness. As it reached the dip where the thigh started, Connor tensed – and Angel was aware of the burning heat against his own leg. “Time enough,” he said, gathering Connor’s wrists in his hand. Connor didn’t answer. But his heart beat faster and his blood rushed quicker. “Now,” he said, “let’s see if I can make you mad.” When Angel did something, he liked to do it properly. Apparently, when Connor did something – or, in this case, allowed something to happen – there was no turning back. No change of mind. No doubt. Two things they had in common. As Angel’s palm struck first one cheek, then the other, each stroke firmer than the last, there was a fraction of a second where he waited for Connor to tell him to stop. Connor said nothing; he just stared at the floor, his jaw working, the muscles in his neck corded. As if every ounce of tension was concentrated on getting through this. Angel speeded up. He kept the slaps quick and sharp, covering every inch of the bottom before him. He could feel the tiny hairs standing up as the air moved over them, then flatten down with the weight of his blow; he could feel the muscles beneath twitching in anticipation. Within moments, the skin under his hand was hot and flushed, fingerprints marking the flesh. Angel, marking his son. This body, starting now to move against him, this body was supposed to be invincible, but it wore its bruises so easily. The blood that assailed Angel’s every sense, it rushed to the surface, pooling under the skin. Even Connor’s wrists grew dark where Angel held them tight. Angel laid down a pattern across the tops of Connor’s thighs, just so he could watch the bruises form. When Connor sucked in breath through his teeth, Angel shifted his knees slightly so Connor’s legs fell open, and continued his pattern further round. Connor became very still as Angel’s hands brushed his balls; the heat against Angel’s leg grew steadily hotter. “Lift up some more,” said Angel, laying his palm on a burning thigh. Connor heaved his ass higher – no mean feat in his position – and Angel saw things he’d never thought he’d see. He brushed his fingertips across the softness before him, and this time Connor made a sound. It wasn’t to tell him to stop, though. It was helpless; surrender. “None of that,” said Angel, and began his onslaught anew. Now, though, the sound of a hand striking flesh was accompanied by a constant, low sob. Desperate and ashamed. Connor’s face was dark red, and he was gulping for air like he was drowning. Angel redoubled the blows, moving up and down the raised bottom with a rigid determination. Each smack sent shivers not just through Connor’s backside, but through the boy’s whole body; right down to the tip of his cock that was barely brushing Angel’s leg, Connor held himself so high. “What was that?” said Angel harshly, as Connor gasped. When Connor didn’t answer, he trailed his fingers the length of Connor’s ass, right down the middle. Then dipped his hand underneath and ghosted over that burning, throbbing cock. “Please…” Connor’s voice was a whisper. “Please, just…” “No.” Angel took his hand away, and watched as Connor raised up higher, trying to find it again. Angel struck him squarely on the left cheek, then on the right. “I said – No. Not for someone like you.” He landed a slap across Connor’s balls. “Someone who gives up.” Which was when Connor really started to cry. Angel let him collapse down, and followed him with his palm. Covered the shaking, sobbing body with the hardest blows, and hauled Connor back into position every time his thrashing and kicking threatened to send him falling to the floor. When it seemed like the boy would choke from crying, Angel tipped him onto the bed, on his back, and held his legs up; landed smack after smack across balls and butt cheeks, Connor’s ankles clasped in one, relentless hand. He looked openly at the boy’s face because, for once, Connor wasn’t looking back at him. He saw tears and shock and rage. And that same, desperate need that he’d always seen, but never recognised until now. He stopped. “Hold onto the headboard,” he said, and Connor reached his arms up and curled shaking fingers around the bottom of the leather. Angel kept the boy’s legs slightly up, pushed them back and slipped his hand through them. Connor froze. “Just for you,” Angel promised. “Just this once.” And he wrapped his hand – warm now with the heat of his son – around the boy’s cock. After, he watched his marks fade from his son’s skin as Connor lay on the bed and wept. Angel pressed a finger to the last, darkest bruise, just above the rise of Connor’s buttock. “Does it still hurt?” “Yes,” said Connor, looking up with a tear-stained face. “But you get used to it.” “I don’t want you to get used to it.” Connor studied him for a moment, then lay back down. “Then you best hurt me some more.” Angel took care to make it hurt, and when he was sure he’d marked his boy in a place where it would never fade, when he was deep inside and crawling under Connor’s skin, feeling the blood rush around him… Connor bit him. Tore at his shoulders with his nails, sank teeth into his skin, thrashed beneath him. Swore at him and snarled like he wanted to rip his father to shreds. “Now you’re mad at me,” said Angel, and clamped his hand over Connor’s mouth, so the sounds of rage choked off against his palm. Connor curled up in his father’s lap, shaking, while Angel let kisses fall unnoticed into Connor’s hair. “I hate you,” said Connor eventually, pressing his head against Angel’s chest. “Trust me, you have every right.” “But I wanted you to… you know. I asked you.” “Oh, that?” Angel brushed the hair from his boy’s eyes. “That’s not why you hate me.” “Tell me, then.” “No.” Connor raised his head. His eyes were blazing, and his jaw was set. Angel could see the handprint across his mouth where his own hand had been. It was fading, of course. “Then why are we wasting time?” said Connor, moving off Angel’s lap, and out of his arms. “I’ve got work to do.” -End Feedback |