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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: Drunk Author: Kallysten Pairing:Angel/Connor Rating: NC-17 Since the night his intoxicated mind played tricks on him and made him see one boy when another knelt in front of him, Angel has been careful not to drink too much. He was afraid of what would happen if – when he would. Afraid of what he would see. Imagine. Say. Do. But tonight… tonight he doesn’t care. They’ve been gone for a full day. He knows Spike. He knows how convincing he can be. He knows how far he can get in a single day. He knows what they’re doing right now. The knowledge burns, like the alcohol sliding down his throat – like the images in his head, bright and clear, too much bared flesh blinding him. He shuts his eyes tight, trying to chase them away, but without success. He gives in. He always knew he would, in the end. One hand tugs his shirt out of his pants then slides down his chest, leaving a row of undone buttons in its wake. The other puts down the empty glass and picks up the mostly full bottle. When he sets it down again, it’s empty too. The metal of his belt buckle is smooth and cool beneath his fingertips. The leather slips out of the loops with a whisper; it falls to the carpet with a muted thud. He sits down on the sofa, closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. A small, tiny, minuscule part of him says it’s wrong. He doesn’t say otherwise. He just waits for the alcohol to finish dulling his mind, dulling his understanding of shouldn’t and never. His senses, though, remain just as sharp. He can smell Connor all around him. He was here just hours ago – hurt, bleeding, and then aroused. He was sitting right here, Spike wrapped around him, and Angel can almost feel the heat that seeped into the sofa. He can see him in his mind’s eye, standing in front of him, wearing Angel’s shirt. It’s too large on him, and makes him look like a child. Angel shakes his head. He’s not a child anymore. If Angel had any doubt about that, Connor’s smile, sweet as sin and sharp as fangs, would be enough to set him right. “Take it off.” Connor’s eyes sparkle. He doesn’t say a word but his hands are already unbuttoning. A small shrug and the shirt slides off him, pooling at his feet, leaving Angel’s eyes free to feast on a pale, smooth chest. A bruised chest. Angel feels each of these blue-black bruises as though they had been inflicted on him. His fingers flex on his thigh, but he doesn’t reach out. Not yet. “Take it all off,” he says with a cluck of his tongue. Connor’s smile wavers, chastised. His voice is a murmur. “Yes Daddy.” Angel follows every slow movement of Connor’s hands as they undo the fastening of his pants and shove them down. His cock is standing at half mast, bobbing a little, flushed and beautiful. “Good boy,” Angel croons, and opens his arms. “Come to Daddy.” The smile returns, bright as sunshine, warm as hell. Connor climbs onto his lap, a knee on either side of Angel’s slightly parted thighs. Angel’s hands welcome him, the right one cradling his cock, the left brushing along his torso, caressing each bruise in turn. “Does it hurt?” he asks very quietly. “A little.” Connor bucks into his hand; his cock is filling with blood, heat and life. “Make it better?” Angel’s hand slides to the back of Connor’s neck and into his hair, cupping gently. He draws him forward, slowly, savoring the feel of him before he gets a taste. His lips are cut, bloody. Angel remembers the taste of his son’s blood all too well. He dreams of it, sometimes, like amputees dream of running faster than the wind. He laps at the cut with the tip of his tongue, slow and gentle – as slow, as gentle as his fist pumping over Connor’s cock. A tiny moan passes Connor’s lips and caresses Angel’s. He pushes his tongue in, strokes Connor’s tongue, his teeth, his palate – everywhere. He wants to know every little bit of his son, inside and out. There’s so much he doesn’t know… Another moan, and a bead of precome rises at the tip of Connor’s cock. Angel swipes it with his palm, then uses the lubrication to slide his fist a little tighter, a little faster over hot, hard flesh. Connor gasps. His eyes are wide, his breathing faster, his heart like drums – but they’re not marching to war. He lays his cheek on Angel’s shoulder, rubbing back and forth until the shirt slides back and they’re skin to skin. His lips brush against Angel’s throat when he whimpers. “Shhh… I’m here. Daddy’s here, son.” Connor’s arms slide beneath Angel’s shirt and around his chest. He rocks into Angel, trapping his cock between them, painting lines of lust on Angel’s stomach. “That’s it,” Angel murmurs, leaning in to press his face to the crook of Connor’s neck. “That’s my boy.” As Angel shifts to game face, Connor shudders, and bucks harder still. He practically keens. “Daddy please…” Angel parts his lips for an open mouth kiss against that perfect throat, right where it once lay gaping, bloody and still. “Come for me,” he whispers. “Come for Daddy.” Connor throws his head back and shouts when Angel’s fangs slide into him. He comes hard, his release splattering over Angel’s hand and chest. For an instant, Angel remains perfectly still. Then he opens his eyes, blinking several times to readjust his vision. He shifts out of game face. His tongue hurts where his fangs pierced it, but the pain is distant, almost like an echo. His cock lays on the folded waistband of his pants, limp and spent. A stain is forming beneath the tip. He wipes his hand on his shirt and closes his eyes again. He wonders what Connor calls Spike when they’re in bed. -end Feedback |