keelywolfe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
keelywolfe) wrote2004-07-03 11:05 pm
keelywolfe) wrote2004-07-03 11:05 pm
Entry tags:
Angel/Doyle, NC-17, Strawberry Fields, 5/?
Title: Strawberry Fields, 5/?
Author: Keelywolfe
Series: Angel
Pairing: Angel/Doyle
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: So not mine. Not even vaguelly mine. (Gee, it's only taken me what, four years to write Angel and Doyle? Not dating myself or anything.) Apologies to the Beatles from whom I stole the title.
Summary: Set after Bachelor's Party, with the slight AU of Doyle not getting the 'Save Buffy at Thanksgiving' vibe yet.
~~*~~
"Don't know why you're complaining. It worked, didn't it."
Angel didn't answer him as he stepped carefully out of the lift. He opened the refrigerator and chose one plastic-cased packet of blood at random, holding it with clumsy, numb fingers. They could barely grasp it and he finally had to use both hands to set it on the counter.
"Yeah, there were a few problems here and there," Doyle went on. Angel could hear him rummaging for the first aid kit, useless bandages that he would accept in silence. He would heal with or without sterile bits of cotton to hold him together. Mostly they were to spare his clothing and furniture from any more bloodstains than they already had. There was the sound of plastic being stripped away, waxed strips of paper peeled from sticky tape as Doyle bound up his own wounds. "But we did save the ladies."
Again, both hands to get a mug from the cupboard, holding it between his wrists, his outstretched fingers curved out of the way. Vampires couldn’t blister or peel but they made up for it with skin that charred as easily as rice paper set aflame. He'd felt that before, once, caught out in the daylight for far too long and the ruined skin had peeled away in grotesque sheets, leaving pink and shiny flesh beneath it that was too sensitive for even a touch. This was nothing so bad as that, only the lightest of burns but his hands were still clumsy and dumb, his fingers stiffened with new skin. Doyle's burns were worse and his skin did blister into little puffed beads on his hands.
He'd seen it in the stairwell off the roof, just out of the sunlight after Doyle had tried stupidly to beat out the flames with his own bare hands. The woman he'd saved stumbled away down the stairs, clutching her child to her chest, too panicked to care much about her blazing rescuer. It was Doyle's coat that had finally saved them both, some bit of self-preservation that made him think to whip it off and smother the fire. His own coat was a complete loss and they'd left it in the stairwell. The rest of his clothes had fared somewhat better and his hands, bare and unprotected, had taken the worst of the damage. Next time he'd remember gloves. He wondered if there was burn ointment in the kit and made a mental note to check in case Doyle needed it.
God, he was tired.
The ceramic cup between his wrists was slick in his awkward grasp and it was with nothing more than weary expectation that he felt it slip and tumble to the floor.
Doyle caught it easily, half-kneeling in an oddly graceful little movement as he came in from behind him. He set it absently on the counter before taking away the blood packet and slitting it open with the kitchen shears. His fingers were circled with band-aids, the false flesh tone of them garish against his paler skin. "I was right fond of this shirt though," he said, and looked mournfully at the scorched front. At that point it was only being held together by the buttons. The demise of his shirt was probably the only good thing that had happened today.
"I was pretty fond of my coat, too," Angel murmured. He watched as Doyle expertly tipped the blood into the mug and set it in the microwave. He leaned against the counter, folded his arms awkwardly so his hands rested lightly on top, and they both watched it circle slowly as it heated.
"Let's say we do a little practice with the beach umbrella," Doyle was saying, "before we try that again, yeah?"
"Yeah," Angel said vaguely. He barely heard him. The warm blood-smell was starting to rise in the air and even though it was animal blood, his mouth watered for the taste of it. That first burst of flavor across his tongue, fouled as it was with the taint of the beast but unbearably tempting, his drug though not one of his choice. He started to reach for the microwave door as it beeped but Doyle beat him to it, hissed softly at the heat as he picked up the mug and then held it out to Angel. He reached for it automatically and frowned as Doyle held it away.
"You'd just drop it anyway," he pointed out reasonably, and he held it out again, tipping it enough that the dark fluid thinned against the side, showing a hint of its true crimson tone.
It wasn't shame that filled him as he leaned in and let Doyle tip the blood into his mouth. Nothing like shame, more like desperation, the viscous flow over his tongue dimming even that as he drank, trying not to reach up and grab Doyle's wrist to keep him there. Humiliation came later, licking blood from his lips and knowing he was hunching in to reach the cup that Doyle still held, his eyes yellowed and his demon revealed.
Doyle didn't flinch from him, not physically, but he was looking away, eyes on the counter while Angel fed, quickly. The blood would thicken as it cooled, like sludge against his tongue and he hated that more than anything. It made it too easy to remember that it never happened when you took it from the source.
His concentrated disinterest was less than a relief but better than the alternative. Some people found vampires fascinating, watched eagerly as they sipped their life from the lives of others. The heady danger of it, the possibility of death that they never truly believed would be theirs. It tiresome cliché that most vampires bored with quickly, preferring the final climax of death rather than toying with it to entertain a human who was nothing more than food.
But Doyle wasn't human and didn't seem interested in feeding habits of vampires, or any demon that wasn't trying to kill them for that matter. Even through it all, he was still so insistently human, if only to himself and Cordelia because nothing about him would ever let Angel forget the truth.
Did he still see his demon self as an outsider, more of a dual personality than one true creature? A parasite of sorts that had stolen his life away from him and left him with the dregs. If so, Angel could sympathize.
Even humiliation didn't keep him from licking the rim of the cup, catching the last clinging stain of blood while Doyle wasn't watching him. He stepped back to signal he was done and Doyle rinsed the cup and set it in the sink before he started unbuttoning his shirt.
The bloodhigh was still singing to him, a technicolor glory that was pushed along by whatever mystical means kept a dead body moving and speaking, and it was only that, he told himself, that made his cock stiffen so quickly as he watched Doyle strip off in the pallid light.
"Mind if I take the first shower?"
"Um?" It didn't even register until Doyle breezed past him, still in his trousers, and into the bathroom. The first juddery spurt of water as he turned it on, dimmed as Doyle stepped in and there was the snap of the shower curtain as he closed it.
Angel heard it all, still standing in the kitchen. For a moment he'd actually thought—it didn't matter what he'd thought, only that it hadn't been true. He took a shaky, useless breath and scrubbed a hand over his face roughly. It was the blood, had to be. He could still taste it on the back of his tongue, the tingle that signaled his hands were healing faster now and he could flex his fingers and did, tried not to think of what he'd almost did with them before Doyle had walked away.
They called it food because what other word was there for it, but it wasn't, vampires didn't eat food because they weren't alive. It could talk like a man and walk like one, but it didn't breathe like one or shit like one, didn't even bleed like one. Just paler, used liquid that passed for blood, after the demon had dredged whatever it was that it needed from it. Until then, it surged in him like opium and pulled that demon closer to the surface because while he was the one who drank the blood it was the demon who feasted.
But not all demons were evil, not even most, and he wondered sometimes how a half-demon had a soul or something that passed for one. Or maybe he should wonder how a half-human kept his soul. He took a reluctant step closer to the bathroom where the door was mostly open. Through the rising steam and the clear shower curtain he could see Doyle, his face raised into the hot water and his hands well away from it, pressed against the tiles.
Perfect, just like that, and Angel could slip in behind him so easily, hold him perfectly still, the water pouring down on them molten hot and the first push inside like a memory of Hell.
He reeled the thought in so hard he actually stumbled backward and bumped hard into the arm of the chair behind him, fumbling it around until he could sit.
"Christ," he muttered aloud, and his guts felt like wet leaves. This was not helping things.
He never called it Angelus, not in his own mind. It was always the demon; the darker half of himself that he had to admit was his own if he ever wanted to be absolved of its sins. It was not cognized, not verbally, but it could feel and what it felt was desire, bitter and hot, boiling out and over into Angel. Desire for Doyle who was so utterly available to him, if he only asked, if he didn't know how much Doyle would hate him for it, how much he'd hate himself for taking more than was absolutely necessary.
"How is this helping me stay focused?" he demanded to no one at all, not feeling half as foolish about it as he expected. He'd been better off with no sex at all and the risk of possibly being distracted than he was like this, waiting for the moment he lost control and just pushed Doyle over his desk in the office. Probably with Cordelia in the corner complaining that they were going to scare away the clients.
He had it under control when Doyle came out of the bathroom in just a towel, didn't even blink and if he got hard looking at the damp, exposed skin then it was all right. So long as he stayed in his chair and did not move.
"I forgot, I don't have anything else to wear." Doyle ran a sheepish hand through his dripping hair and grinned.
Angel gestured vaguely towards his bedroom and did not get up. "Help yourself." He rethought it as Doyle walked into the bedroom and he heard the closet door slide open. "Nothing leather!"
A soft laugh was his only reply.
There was a framed sketch on the wall opposite to him, one he had done himself, a still life of a young woman that he'd cribbed from another artist. She reminded him vaguely of his sister, whose face he could not remember at all and she was too long dead for more than a stirring of guilt.
Something else then, maybe dinner if his hands were up to cooking or take-out if they weren't. He could drive over to the little Chinese place that Doyle liked so much and leave the top down to let the cool air run its fingers through his hair and when he got back it would be better, he would be better, calmer, and it would be all right.
The slap of something against his chest startled him from his thoughts and he reached for it automatically, a slick plastic tube and it was followed by something else entirely. Doyle sliding into his lap, skin still damp and he smelled fresh and steamy from the shower.
"You could've said something before I took a shower," Doyle complained softly into his ear and, God, he was here, right here in Angel's lap and naked, and he knew--
He wrapped his arms around Doyle and pulled him in tightly, licked that soft pulse-point at the base of his throat to feel him shiver. His own clothes were faintly charred and ruined, burned from his own skin touched by sunlight and he fumbled them open to get where he really wanted to be, pressed against bare skin.
Doyle gasped and shook, his face hidden against Angel's shoulder, maybe to hide his reluctance but part of him was as eager for this as Angel was, hot and hard in Angel's palm and Doyle was all sweet-smelling hair and pale skin. No taste of salt to him as Angel licked his way up the line of his throat, nothing so pallid as human and between them, they managed to fumble the tube open, bandaged fingers against colder, healing ones.
Stroked Doyle open with slick fingers and it hurt, the clenching heat of his body against still-tender skin and Angel doesn't care, nor about how awkward it was in this chair that wasn't made for two, not even with one sitting on the other. He gathered Doyle into his arms, positioned him and just pushed.
"Ah, God," he moaned, helplessly, but God didn't reply, only left them alone in that rough chair while Angel muttered blasphemies about His only son. It would have been impossible for a human, nearly so for a vampire but he could move just enough, grinding his hips up as Doyle sobbed out a breath. Still so unbelievably tight, and he wondered how many times he could fuck Doyle before he finally loosened, that first almost-painful tightness ebbing away into something easier to slide into. Wondered if he'd get a chance to find out and hated that he'd even thought of it.
There were already bluish bruises on Doyle's hips from before, probably still there from the first time and fresh red marks were already appearing from Angel's grip, tightening and loosening infinitesimally as he rocked Doyle in his lap and listened to the soft sounds he made, harsh and rhythmic and they made his cock harden like stone.
Why are you doing this to us, he wanted to cry, but all he could do was moan as he pulled Doyle down hard and made him cry out, the rush of scalding heat against his belly and the sudden, hard kiss of penetration as slick muscle went tight around him. The light behind his eyes tasted like electricity and orgasm left him drained and cold, the last warmth from the blood finally seeping away.
Barely time for Doyle to catch his breath when he stiffened suddenly, nails digging into Angel's shoulders as his eyes went wide, lost to whatever images were fluttering through his head. This was worse than a betrayal, this was an invasion and at that moment, he hated the Powers, whoever or whatever they were. He wanted to scream like a spoiled child at them for stealing Doyle away while he was still pulsing with their sex and going soft inside him.
But perhaps that was the point. A reminder that Doyle wasn't really his, after all.
It lasted not even a minute, Doyle's eyelids fluttering as he shook with it, collapsing finally into Angel's arms. He pulled away with startling quickness, snatching the towel from the floor and hiding what little he could of his body behind it before he sank down on the sofa and buried his face in his hands.
"What did you see?" Angel asked softly.
His voice was muffled by his hands. Between the shower and the sex, the band-aids ringing his fingers were already ruined, one torn almost completely off and hanging limply from one tab. But they didn't disguise the one word he said, barely loud enough to be heard and yet it echoed through Angel like a knife wound.
"Buffy."
~~*~~
end part 5
Author: Keelywolfe
Series: Angel
Pairing: Angel/Doyle
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: So not mine. Not even vaguelly mine. (Gee, it's only taken me what, four years to write Angel and Doyle? Not dating myself or anything.) Apologies to the Beatles from whom I stole the title.
Summary: Set after Bachelor's Party, with the slight AU of Doyle not getting the 'Save Buffy at Thanksgiving' vibe yet.
~~*~~
"Don't know why you're complaining. It worked, didn't it."
Angel didn't answer him as he stepped carefully out of the lift. He opened the refrigerator and chose one plastic-cased packet of blood at random, holding it with clumsy, numb fingers. They could barely grasp it and he finally had to use both hands to set it on the counter.
"Yeah, there were a few problems here and there," Doyle went on. Angel could hear him rummaging for the first aid kit, useless bandages that he would accept in silence. He would heal with or without sterile bits of cotton to hold him together. Mostly they were to spare his clothing and furniture from any more bloodstains than they already had. There was the sound of plastic being stripped away, waxed strips of paper peeled from sticky tape as Doyle bound up his own wounds. "But we did save the ladies."
Again, both hands to get a mug from the cupboard, holding it between his wrists, his outstretched fingers curved out of the way. Vampires couldn’t blister or peel but they made up for it with skin that charred as easily as rice paper set aflame. He'd felt that before, once, caught out in the daylight for far too long and the ruined skin had peeled away in grotesque sheets, leaving pink and shiny flesh beneath it that was too sensitive for even a touch. This was nothing so bad as that, only the lightest of burns but his hands were still clumsy and dumb, his fingers stiffened with new skin. Doyle's burns were worse and his skin did blister into little puffed beads on his hands.
He'd seen it in the stairwell off the roof, just out of the sunlight after Doyle had tried stupidly to beat out the flames with his own bare hands. The woman he'd saved stumbled away down the stairs, clutching her child to her chest, too panicked to care much about her blazing rescuer. It was Doyle's coat that had finally saved them both, some bit of self-preservation that made him think to whip it off and smother the fire. His own coat was a complete loss and they'd left it in the stairwell. The rest of his clothes had fared somewhat better and his hands, bare and unprotected, had taken the worst of the damage. Next time he'd remember gloves. He wondered if there was burn ointment in the kit and made a mental note to check in case Doyle needed it.
God, he was tired.
The ceramic cup between his wrists was slick in his awkward grasp and it was with nothing more than weary expectation that he felt it slip and tumble to the floor.
Doyle caught it easily, half-kneeling in an oddly graceful little movement as he came in from behind him. He set it absently on the counter before taking away the blood packet and slitting it open with the kitchen shears. His fingers were circled with band-aids, the false flesh tone of them garish against his paler skin. "I was right fond of this shirt though," he said, and looked mournfully at the scorched front. At that point it was only being held together by the buttons. The demise of his shirt was probably the only good thing that had happened today.
"I was pretty fond of my coat, too," Angel murmured. He watched as Doyle expertly tipped the blood into the mug and set it in the microwave. He leaned against the counter, folded his arms awkwardly so his hands rested lightly on top, and they both watched it circle slowly as it heated.
"Let's say we do a little practice with the beach umbrella," Doyle was saying, "before we try that again, yeah?"
"Yeah," Angel said vaguely. He barely heard him. The warm blood-smell was starting to rise in the air and even though it was animal blood, his mouth watered for the taste of it. That first burst of flavor across his tongue, fouled as it was with the taint of the beast but unbearably tempting, his drug though not one of his choice. He started to reach for the microwave door as it beeped but Doyle beat him to it, hissed softly at the heat as he picked up the mug and then held it out to Angel. He reached for it automatically and frowned as Doyle held it away.
"You'd just drop it anyway," he pointed out reasonably, and he held it out again, tipping it enough that the dark fluid thinned against the side, showing a hint of its true crimson tone.
It wasn't shame that filled him as he leaned in and let Doyle tip the blood into his mouth. Nothing like shame, more like desperation, the viscous flow over his tongue dimming even that as he drank, trying not to reach up and grab Doyle's wrist to keep him there. Humiliation came later, licking blood from his lips and knowing he was hunching in to reach the cup that Doyle still held, his eyes yellowed and his demon revealed.
Doyle didn't flinch from him, not physically, but he was looking away, eyes on the counter while Angel fed, quickly. The blood would thicken as it cooled, like sludge against his tongue and he hated that more than anything. It made it too easy to remember that it never happened when you took it from the source.
His concentrated disinterest was less than a relief but better than the alternative. Some people found vampires fascinating, watched eagerly as they sipped their life from the lives of others. The heady danger of it, the possibility of death that they never truly believed would be theirs. It tiresome cliché that most vampires bored with quickly, preferring the final climax of death rather than toying with it to entertain a human who was nothing more than food.
But Doyle wasn't human and didn't seem interested in feeding habits of vampires, or any demon that wasn't trying to kill them for that matter. Even through it all, he was still so insistently human, if only to himself and Cordelia because nothing about him would ever let Angel forget the truth.
Did he still see his demon self as an outsider, more of a dual personality than one true creature? A parasite of sorts that had stolen his life away from him and left him with the dregs. If so, Angel could sympathize.
Even humiliation didn't keep him from licking the rim of the cup, catching the last clinging stain of blood while Doyle wasn't watching him. He stepped back to signal he was done and Doyle rinsed the cup and set it in the sink before he started unbuttoning his shirt.
The bloodhigh was still singing to him, a technicolor glory that was pushed along by whatever mystical means kept a dead body moving and speaking, and it was only that, he told himself, that made his cock stiffen so quickly as he watched Doyle strip off in the pallid light.
"Mind if I take the first shower?"
"Um?" It didn't even register until Doyle breezed past him, still in his trousers, and into the bathroom. The first juddery spurt of water as he turned it on, dimmed as Doyle stepped in and there was the snap of the shower curtain as he closed it.
Angel heard it all, still standing in the kitchen. For a moment he'd actually thought—it didn't matter what he'd thought, only that it hadn't been true. He took a shaky, useless breath and scrubbed a hand over his face roughly. It was the blood, had to be. He could still taste it on the back of his tongue, the tingle that signaled his hands were healing faster now and he could flex his fingers and did, tried not to think of what he'd almost did with them before Doyle had walked away.
They called it food because what other word was there for it, but it wasn't, vampires didn't eat food because they weren't alive. It could talk like a man and walk like one, but it didn't breathe like one or shit like one, didn't even bleed like one. Just paler, used liquid that passed for blood, after the demon had dredged whatever it was that it needed from it. Until then, it surged in him like opium and pulled that demon closer to the surface because while he was the one who drank the blood it was the demon who feasted.
But not all demons were evil, not even most, and he wondered sometimes how a half-demon had a soul or something that passed for one. Or maybe he should wonder how a half-human kept his soul. He took a reluctant step closer to the bathroom where the door was mostly open. Through the rising steam and the clear shower curtain he could see Doyle, his face raised into the hot water and his hands well away from it, pressed against the tiles.
Perfect, just like that, and Angel could slip in behind him so easily, hold him perfectly still, the water pouring down on them molten hot and the first push inside like a memory of Hell.
He reeled the thought in so hard he actually stumbled backward and bumped hard into the arm of the chair behind him, fumbling it around until he could sit.
"Christ," he muttered aloud, and his guts felt like wet leaves. This was not helping things.
He never called it Angelus, not in his own mind. It was always the demon; the darker half of himself that he had to admit was his own if he ever wanted to be absolved of its sins. It was not cognized, not verbally, but it could feel and what it felt was desire, bitter and hot, boiling out and over into Angel. Desire for Doyle who was so utterly available to him, if he only asked, if he didn't know how much Doyle would hate him for it, how much he'd hate himself for taking more than was absolutely necessary.
"How is this helping me stay focused?" he demanded to no one at all, not feeling half as foolish about it as he expected. He'd been better off with no sex at all and the risk of possibly being distracted than he was like this, waiting for the moment he lost control and just pushed Doyle over his desk in the office. Probably with Cordelia in the corner complaining that they were going to scare away the clients.
He had it under control when Doyle came out of the bathroom in just a towel, didn't even blink and if he got hard looking at the damp, exposed skin then it was all right. So long as he stayed in his chair and did not move.
"I forgot, I don't have anything else to wear." Doyle ran a sheepish hand through his dripping hair and grinned.
Angel gestured vaguely towards his bedroom and did not get up. "Help yourself." He rethought it as Doyle walked into the bedroom and he heard the closet door slide open. "Nothing leather!"
A soft laugh was his only reply.
There was a framed sketch on the wall opposite to him, one he had done himself, a still life of a young woman that he'd cribbed from another artist. She reminded him vaguely of his sister, whose face he could not remember at all and she was too long dead for more than a stirring of guilt.
Something else then, maybe dinner if his hands were up to cooking or take-out if they weren't. He could drive over to the little Chinese place that Doyle liked so much and leave the top down to let the cool air run its fingers through his hair and when he got back it would be better, he would be better, calmer, and it would be all right.
The slap of something against his chest startled him from his thoughts and he reached for it automatically, a slick plastic tube and it was followed by something else entirely. Doyle sliding into his lap, skin still damp and he smelled fresh and steamy from the shower.
"You could've said something before I took a shower," Doyle complained softly into his ear and, God, he was here, right here in Angel's lap and naked, and he knew--
He wrapped his arms around Doyle and pulled him in tightly, licked that soft pulse-point at the base of his throat to feel him shiver. His own clothes were faintly charred and ruined, burned from his own skin touched by sunlight and he fumbled them open to get where he really wanted to be, pressed against bare skin.
Doyle gasped and shook, his face hidden against Angel's shoulder, maybe to hide his reluctance but part of him was as eager for this as Angel was, hot and hard in Angel's palm and Doyle was all sweet-smelling hair and pale skin. No taste of salt to him as Angel licked his way up the line of his throat, nothing so pallid as human and between them, they managed to fumble the tube open, bandaged fingers against colder, healing ones.
Stroked Doyle open with slick fingers and it hurt, the clenching heat of his body against still-tender skin and Angel doesn't care, nor about how awkward it was in this chair that wasn't made for two, not even with one sitting on the other. He gathered Doyle into his arms, positioned him and just pushed.
"Ah, God," he moaned, helplessly, but God didn't reply, only left them alone in that rough chair while Angel muttered blasphemies about His only son. It would have been impossible for a human, nearly so for a vampire but he could move just enough, grinding his hips up as Doyle sobbed out a breath. Still so unbelievably tight, and he wondered how many times he could fuck Doyle before he finally loosened, that first almost-painful tightness ebbing away into something easier to slide into. Wondered if he'd get a chance to find out and hated that he'd even thought of it.
There were already bluish bruises on Doyle's hips from before, probably still there from the first time and fresh red marks were already appearing from Angel's grip, tightening and loosening infinitesimally as he rocked Doyle in his lap and listened to the soft sounds he made, harsh and rhythmic and they made his cock harden like stone.
Why are you doing this to us, he wanted to cry, but all he could do was moan as he pulled Doyle down hard and made him cry out, the rush of scalding heat against his belly and the sudden, hard kiss of penetration as slick muscle went tight around him. The light behind his eyes tasted like electricity and orgasm left him drained and cold, the last warmth from the blood finally seeping away.
Barely time for Doyle to catch his breath when he stiffened suddenly, nails digging into Angel's shoulders as his eyes went wide, lost to whatever images were fluttering through his head. This was worse than a betrayal, this was an invasion and at that moment, he hated the Powers, whoever or whatever they were. He wanted to scream like a spoiled child at them for stealing Doyle away while he was still pulsing with their sex and going soft inside him.
But perhaps that was the point. A reminder that Doyle wasn't really his, after all.
It lasted not even a minute, Doyle's eyelids fluttering as he shook with it, collapsing finally into Angel's arms. He pulled away with startling quickness, snatching the towel from the floor and hiding what little he could of his body behind it before he sank down on the sofa and buried his face in his hands.
"What did you see?" Angel asked softly.
His voice was muffled by his hands. Between the shower and the sex, the band-aids ringing his fingers were already ruined, one torn almost completely off and hanging limply from one tab. But they didn't disguise the one word he said, barely loud enough to be heard and yet it echoed through Angel like a knife wound.
"Buffy."
~~*~~
end part 5