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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: Mistletoe and Other Parasites Author: Kita Pairing: Angel/Connor Rating: NC-17 Setting: Post-'Home', Pre-'Origin' A/N: One in a series of four shorts focusing on familial relationships in Jossverse. This story can stand on its own, but if you would like to read the other three parts, the entire fic can be found on my personal site, AlmightyGAH! under the title Little Deaths. He’s already kissed this boy. (like a chalice or the relic of some bleeding saint. Like a holy mystery, he’s pressed closed lips to a rain soaked forehead, to tiny curled fingers as he counted them one by one, to the soft, baby powdered scent of untouched feet) But not like this. Connor presses Angel’s back to the wall. Long fingers on Angel’s chest, sharp knee between Angel’s thighs, Connor’s attempts at seduction are clumsy, drunk. Young. His smile is pink and crooked; he’s pleased at his own daring, his own strength. This Connor doesn’t know (anything) he shouldn’t tilt his head back, shouldn’t stare up at Angel with eyes the color of his baby blanket (soft as his skin was soft, puffy white clouds and tiny hand-stitched booties). Doesn’t know he shouldn’t bare his neck. Angel wraps a hand around his wrist (baby bird bones, lighter than water. Everyone Angel has ever loved could fit in the palm of one of his hands; in the end, he could protect none of them). He holds Connor inches away. Connor blinks as he cocks his head, and makes a tiny noise of frustration in the back of his throat. (he needs to sleep in his crib, Cordelia would say, every night. But Connor whimpered when he wasn’t in Angel’s bed, lost kitten sounds that Angel could feel in his own chest. So Angel had to pick him up, cradle him close, hold him tight enough to keep him safe) When Angel finally lets go, Connor collides against him. (tumbling out of a tornado, there had been no way in and no way out, but Connor found a way back; once Angel lets go they always come back) He is shoving at Angel’s shoulders, teething at Angel’s neck. Willful and unyielding, (screaming in the morning, demanding to be fed, to be held, to be loved) the same urgent beat to his heart Angel once heard inside Darla’s womb. And Angel made that heart, these hands, this mouth- scraping across Angel’s cheek, pressing wet open lips against his own. Connor tastes like rum punch and candy canes (his blood tasted like the wine Angelus used to steal from church altars, like the hymns sang by girls dressed all in white, right before he tore out their throats). Angel wants to follow the path of all that blood, and with reverent hands and sharp, sharp kisses learn if it still tastes the same. He lets Connor cover him instead. Lets him tear at Angel’s buttons and zippers, shove Angel to the floor, wrap arms and legs around him. Lets him kiss and cling and dance in Angel’s lap, sleepy-eyed and hard. Then Connor’s hand between Angel’s thighs. The room spins. (there’s a carousel in a park north of Santa Barbara, Angel was going to take Connor there for his first birthday he should be three years old now, sitting in Angel’s lap for his bed time story, turning the pages with crayon stained hands how did he learn to crawl in Quor’toth?) He sprawls out in front of Angel with a sure, adolescent grace. Wraps his smile around Angel’s cock (heart shaped boxes, sticky red lollipop kisses) and sucks. Angel moans. Connor’s laugh is untroubled, blameless, it’s party favors and miracles, it is what Angel bought. The indulgence he would trade anything for (and he already has). Angel reaches out, brushes the baby fine hair out of Connor’s eyes. Watches the curve of pouty lips and the slow blink of girl long lashes, watches a bubble gum colored tongue wrap around his balls. (what would Connor’s father say?) He comes with the taste of Connor’s laugh in his own throat, comes back to Connor’s face, flushed and hopeful, wiping at his mouth with the back of one hand. He crawls into Angel’s lap, tugs Angel’s clenched fingers over to the fly of his jeans. Angel listens as the zipper creeps down. And he cradles Connor’s head in the crook of his arm, presses him tight against his chest, rocking him slowly, to the rhythm of shaky breath and lullabies. Connor’s dick leaps in Angel’s fist. He’s already killed this boy. -End Feedback |