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| Title: Synesthesia Author: Mireille Pairing: Angel/Connor Rating: NC-17 Setting: An alternate take on 'A New World' It's adrenaline, Angel tells himself, that makes Connor's eyes glitter, that leaves his breathing rapid and shallow, every exhalation hot on Angel's cheek. It is adrenaline; he can smell it, threading silver and sharp through the air. Adrenaline, and the sour tang of fear; the musk of unwashed bodies and the heavy, brown scent of cigarette smoke clinging to the old clothes Connor has found somewhere. Connor gains a momentary advantage, shoving Angel to the wall, and Connor's weight--slight though it is, compared to Angel's--settles against him, holding him in place. Angel feels Connor hard against his hip, and now the air fills with the thick, dark smell of arousal. The demon is restless, responding to the scents filling his nostrils: blood and fear and lust, and it wants to taste all of them. It's overwhelming, until Angel catches a note in Connor's scent, something indefinable that reminds him of Darla. Realization slams into him, and he regains enough equilibrium to shove Connor away. "Connor--" "Stephen," he snarls, but Angel clings to the name, the link between this boy and the baby his arms remember holding. If he loses that, he's afraid of what will happen next. *** Connor looks like Darla when he smiles. Not so much in any particular configuration of his features, but because Darla would smile that way just before she fed. Connor's not feeding, of course, but his lips are sticky-red--like the rouge Darla used to paint her mouth with, like the cherry cough-drops Cordelia keeps in her desk all winter, like fresh blood--and the hate in his eyes burns Angel's skin like sunlight. "Son," Angel begins, wanting to say, you used to tilt your head just like that, wanting to see that Connor again, the solemn, trusting gaze that made his heart ache with protectiveness. "You're not my father," Connor snaps, and his hips roll forward, instinct leading him to seek out the friction of Angel's hipbone again. Angel could cling to that, or he could listen to the demon--the demon sees this as no different than bedding Darla or Drusilla; it has no taboos about kinship. But instead he holds onto the memories, lets that oddly-familiar tilt of Connor's head soothe the grief he's carried with him since Connor disappeared. His hips thrust forward involuntarily to meet Connor's, and he tastes cold blood and stake-dust on his tongue. *** Angel knows what this is: adrenaline and testosterone and anger, something Connor knows or guesses will hurt him. He's still not prepared for Connor's mouth on his, rough and harsh and awkward, and he realizes with sick despair that he might possibly be the first person his son has ever kissed. It shouldn't be like this; he shouldn't be tasting heat and pain and the red-orange light of a hell-dimension on Connor's tongue. This should not be happening. It is, though, and when Angel raises his hands to push Connor away, they wind up gripping the leather jacket Connor has put on, pulling the boy closer to him. He can excuse Connor; Connor was raised in a hell-dimension by a madman (if Holtz wasn't insane at first, Angel thinks, he has to be by now), and he's sure this was never something Holtz saw fit to warn him against. Connor is young and half-wild and fueled by rage, and this is not his fault. He can't possibly know any better. But Angel's tongue has found the copper-bright taste of blood at the corner of Connor's too-red mouth, and he does know better. He just can't make himself want to stop. *** Connor's head used to fit in the palm of his hand, just so, warm and soft and trusting. Connor's head against his hand now is larger, the hair surprisingly fine and soft. Nothing else about Connor is soft. He's bright, sharp angles and liquid movement, and there is a trickle of blood on his chin from the cut on his lip. Angel keeps his hand in place, shielding Connor's skull from the wall as Angel shoves him back, because he is Connor's father and it's his job to protect him. He expects Connor to fight, to struggle, but instead one leg hitches up, wraps around Angel's thigh and pulls him in. He expects himself to struggle, to turn away, but instead he yanks open the zipper of Connor's filthy secondhand pants and shoves his hand inside. He doesn't have to ask to know that Connor has never felt any hand but his own. Connor's hips jerk forward, following the touch, and Angel gives him more, would give him anything he needs, anything he's willing to take. And all the while, he feels the soft, warm weight of his infant son's head against his palm, and is grateful he's already damned. *** Angel's own pants are open now as well; his cock slides against Connor's, friction eased by sweat and saliva. It doesn't take vampire hearing to detect the ragged edge to Connor's breathing, but Connor's silent, his eyes open, and Angel realizes that Connor's been taught never to lower his guard, even this much. The silence weighs heavily enough on Angel that he's lucky he doesn't have to breathe; he can feel it, pressing down on his chest, and he wants to say something to break it. Connor shifts a little, and all Angel can think to say is "Fuck," the word pulled out of him on the edge of a gasp. Then he doesn't say anything; he's too busy watching Connor, his eyes following every twitch of Connor's facial muscles as he arches against Angel and comes, beautiful and completely silent. Angel pulls away; the spell's been broken, and he can't--he won't-- "Connor," he says, expecting Connor to correct him. Connor only tilts his head and says, "What, Dad?" The word comes out pointed, sharper than a stake. He'd thought he'd wanted Connor to stop fighting that, to acknowledge that Angel, not Holtz, is his father. He was wrong. -End Feedback |