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keelywolfeETA: Minor edits made, a teeny extra added for my own satisfaction. ^_^
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kirbycrow, here is the next one. Didn't I promise...?
Title: Strawberry Fields, 11/?
Author: Keelywolfe
Series: Angel
Pairing: Angel/Doyle
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Any latecomers can find all the other parts here.
~~*~~
He was still calm hours later, lying in bed as he drifted in and out of sleep. Part of him was waiting, unable to rest until he heard the outside door open and close, the uneven tread shuffling towards the bedroom. Angel could smell him first, the strong grain scent of cheap whiskey and the filth of secondhand cigarette smoke. Bar smells. Sour sweat and urine.
The footsteps stopped close to the bed. Angel didn't open his eyes, only said, "You stink."
"Mebbe a bit." His words were faintly slurred, his breath alone raising the alcoholic tang of the air. Somehow, the fact of his drunkenness wasn't nearly as irritating as the smell of it.
"Either take a shower or sleep on the sofa," Angel said grimly. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see Doyle swaying in front of him.
"What's all the fuss for two minutes of squelching noises?" There was the heavy sound of something falling to the floor, a leather jacket.
"Two minutes that you'll be on my sheets." He could smell musty beer and smoke. Underneath it all he was sure there was still that faint floral hint of Cordelia's perfume and he didn't want it anywhere near him. Not in his bed, not near his skin.
There was a long moment of silence and as much as he hated the stink so close to him, Angel was sleepy and comfortable and he was less than awake when he dimly heard Doyle mutter. "Forget it, I ain't doing this tonight."
Doyle started to walk away and that was fine too. If he wanted to leave, he could and take the whiskey and sweat and perfume smells with him.
Only Doyle couldn't walk away, he remembered that too when he heard the vision begin. Just a gasp, the slap of a hand against the wall as Doyle staggered.
He didn't need to see it with his eyes; he'd seen it a dozen times before and he could see it clearly in his head. Green eyes widened, his mouth open in a grimace as the pain gutted him. Angel listened to it, the sudden upward stutter of his heartbeat and it was long seconds before it slowed and Doyle took a deep breath, signaling its end.
He expected to hear the shower after that and then damp, clean skin would be beside him in the bed, and there would be drowsy, reluctant sex. Angel sighed and shifted as his body reacted with predictable eagerness. He didn't mind being persuasive and Doyle was oddly adorable in his reluctance, almost shy if he were allowed to call it that, shivering with each gentle touch. It was like he wanted to be coaxed into it and Angel could almost admit that he liked that, and drifted to sleep waiting for it.
The sound that woke him was familiar but not here in his home. Angel was on his feet before he was even awake, instinctively following it. He found Doyle near the elevator, curled into himself and his voice already hoarse from screaming.
Angel bent down to touch him and Doyle thrashed under his hand, convulsing with images that Angel couldn't see. He caught him under the armpits and hauled him up, dragged him towards the bed even as another convulsion rocked him. Mumbling useless words of comfort, Angel pulled him into the bedroom and settled him on the bed as carefully as he could. Doyle was gasping like he was drowning, eyes still fixed and glazed, stupid, stubborn bastard.
His shoes were off and thrown to the floor, his shirt mostly unbuttoned before Angel realized Doyle's fumbling arms were fighting him and Doyle was speaking, mumbling, over and over again, "No…no…ain't gonna…"
"Doyle, you know what will happen if—" Angel tried to say it gently but Doyle's struggles were getting stronger, fueled with drunken panic. One hand struck him in the face, more startling than painful and Angel caught it, using his own strength and weight to pin Doyle against the bed before he could hurt either of them.
"Doyle," Angel tried to talk to him through the rising volume of whimpers and pleas of no, please, no. The struggling body beneath his own was hot with effort, his wrists clammy and sweaty in Angel's hands. His own guilt was so sudden and heavy it was like something living he could hold in his hands.
There was a new stink in the air, electric and bright blue to his senses. Not exactly fear, the pureness born only of sheer panic. Doyle was shuddering with it, his face blurring briefly into his demon visage and back, and he was twisting his hands in Angel's grip, trying uselessly to break free.
Angel watched Doyle tremble underneath him, his eyes closed tightly against whatever it was he couldn't help seeing, and didn't know what he was supposed to do. The body beneath his own was half-naked, his legs forcibly spread by Angel between them.
Do you want to make me rape you every night.
"Doyle," he whispered, his own voice cracking, and something about his quiet tone made Doyle still, panting and shaking. "They won't stop."
"I don't care," he moaned. He shook his head as if to deny all of it, droplets of sweat clinging to the ends of his hair spattering them both. "I don't wanna do this anymore. I'm more than this! I'm more than just your nightly fuck-fest."
Doyle was stiff beneath him and Angel slowly let him go, easing off him to stand by the bed.
He didn't move, stayed sprawled on the bed like a broken doll and his laughter was bitter and just as broken. "Oh, but I forgot, you're the one getting forced into this, isn't that right? Not like you chose to fight the evil undead, it's not like you wanted to…I just wanted to be left alone."
He was weeping, rolling to bury his face in his arms. "I couldna helped them anyway, God—" He trailed off into a garbled shriek, arching like he was caught in an electric current and it was worse than anything Angel had seen, pain that wouldn't even let him breathe and his face was contorted in a raw, silent scream.
Angel couldn't even bear to watch it, can't imagine how it must feel. "Stop it," he shouted at the ceiling. "Stop hurting him, I'll do it!" He pulled the drawer in the bedside table completely out, fumbling through it to find the tube that they hadn't used since they'd left for Sunnydale. The drawer he flung aside, heard it splinter against the wall and didn't care.
The vision had left Doyle gasping and weak, and Angel ruthlessly took advantage of his languidness, yanking off his pants hard enough that the seams groaned a protest. He remembered that first time, Doyle begging him to hurry, please hurry before another vision hit and Angel could do that, his body's eagerness was a new kind of shame but he'd use it anyway.
Only this Doyle was waking up from the vision and fighting him, snarling drunkenly without even words. Angel was trying to be gentle, trying not to hurt him more than he had to and when a vision hit he was almost grateful. Struggles dimmed into seismic trembling and it made it easy to push his slick fingers inside, readying Doyle as much as he could hope to. His hands felt suddenly clumsy and too large, spreading Doyle open beneath him, sliding his legs over his shoulders, positioning him even as he slowly came back from whatever hell his visions sent him.
His struggles took on an edge of franticness, blurring into the strength of his demon side and back, like he couldn't control the two halves and they were blending into something else entirely. It didn't matter, neither nor both were stronger than a vampire and his next scream was of frustration, echoing through the basement as he tore bruises into his wrists trying to free them.
"I hate you," Doyle breathed, and God, that hurt, like a splinter of wood lodged next to his heart.
"I know," Angel said softly. He eased into him, deeply, Doyle still brutally tight but none of it could keep Angel from pressing deeper, not the sudden, sweet clench of muscles around him, not Doyle's high-pitched gasp, his head thrown back against the blankets in a mockery of vision-pain. Slowly, Angel pulled out, drawing another whimper from Doyle with him and then back in, torn between hurrying and getting it over with and not hurting Doyle.
Doyle went suddenly, completely limp and for a moment Angel thought he'd passed out. Then he saw the faintest gleam from his eyes, barely open and knew he'd given up, and that was even worse. Worse that part of him was enjoying this, exalting in it, and he fucked Doyle as gently as he could, trying not to get rough. No more bruises, please, no more.
"It's all right," Angel murmured, and he was shocked to hear something like a sob in his voice. "This—this will help the visions, I promise, I—" He stuttered to a stop, closed his eyes and tried to hurry.
Doyle gasped, arching his back, "...hurts..." he mumbled and Angel froze.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, gentling his movements. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." A soft apology for each thrust and Doyle was writhing with him now, struggling against Angel's imprisoning hands again and this time Angel simply let him go. Enough bruises, enough pain and if Doyle wanted to gouge his eyes out with his thumbs, Angel would let him.
There was a tiny shock of pain, Doyle's short nails digging into Angel's scalp as he yanked him down and the sudden heat of his mouth, sloppy and wet, flavored with cheap whiskey, stilled him.
"…s'not you," he whispered harshly into Angel's mouth, "Just—ah! Don't stop. God, don't stop." Desperate kisses, their teeth clicking painfully and the feel of Doyle's tongue in his mouth was strange and exotic, tasted so briefly once before when this began. His hands were brutally tight in Angel's hair, refusing to let him pull away.
Angel reached up, touched the backs of them tentatively until they eased back down, let Angel twine their fingers together and press their combined hands back against the comforter.
His mouth was oddly cooler on the inside, the taste of him beneath the whiskey and smoke like an addiction. He couldn't stop moving, thrusting into heat that was suddenly eager for him, hips that arching up against him. Doyle was bent nearly double, his breathing a harsh rasp beneath Angel's weight.
"God, so good," Doyle groaned, the softest vibration against Angel's lips. "Good. Don't stop, s'good."
"Yeah," Angel husked. He didn't, couldn't, rocking in and out as slowly as he could, while Doyle pleaded for more, incoherent cries and moans. It was incredible, the hot velvet clench around him, Doyle's fingers laced so tightly with his own he could feel the tendons straining. This was, God, there weren't words, this was art drawn with sweat and skin, and he couldn't stop, couldn't, God, couldn't.
Angel tore his mouth from Doyle's, buried his face against the knee resting on his shoulder, "Jesus, Doyle," he whimpered.
"Angel," Doyle's voice broke on his name, Doyle was broken beneath him, his face flushed and damp, and he still stank of whiskey and smoke, Angel could taste it in his sweat and didn't care. He felt the sudden heat of a tongue against his neck, Doyle licking his way up the jugular, the barest hint of teeth and that finished him. He thought he might have screamed, certainly someone did and his orgasm boiled out of him, burned through him and blinded him, and it was so fucking good. He tasted salt on his lips, sweat he thought, and the sudden tightening around his cock as Doyle came made him hiss softly, so sensitive it was nearly a kind of pain.
He didn't remember pulling out or moving aside, Doyle barely managing to breathe beneath him. Didn't remember anything, until he woke again, the clock telling him through the gloom that it was barely five, and Doyle was gone.
~~*~~
End chapter
All right,
kirbycrow, here is the next one. Didn't I promise...?Title: Strawberry Fields, 11/?
Author: Keelywolfe
Series: Angel
Pairing: Angel/Doyle
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Any latecomers can find all the other parts here.
~~*~~
He was still calm hours later, lying in bed as he drifted in and out of sleep. Part of him was waiting, unable to rest until he heard the outside door open and close, the uneven tread shuffling towards the bedroom. Angel could smell him first, the strong grain scent of cheap whiskey and the filth of secondhand cigarette smoke. Bar smells. Sour sweat and urine.
The footsteps stopped close to the bed. Angel didn't open his eyes, only said, "You stink."
"Mebbe a bit." His words were faintly slurred, his breath alone raising the alcoholic tang of the air. Somehow, the fact of his drunkenness wasn't nearly as irritating as the smell of it.
"Either take a shower or sleep on the sofa," Angel said grimly. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see Doyle swaying in front of him.
"What's all the fuss for two minutes of squelching noises?" There was the heavy sound of something falling to the floor, a leather jacket.
"Two minutes that you'll be on my sheets." He could smell musty beer and smoke. Underneath it all he was sure there was still that faint floral hint of Cordelia's perfume and he didn't want it anywhere near him. Not in his bed, not near his skin.
There was a long moment of silence and as much as he hated the stink so close to him, Angel was sleepy and comfortable and he was less than awake when he dimly heard Doyle mutter. "Forget it, I ain't doing this tonight."
Doyle started to walk away and that was fine too. If he wanted to leave, he could and take the whiskey and sweat and perfume smells with him.
Only Doyle couldn't walk away, he remembered that too when he heard the vision begin. Just a gasp, the slap of a hand against the wall as Doyle staggered.
He didn't need to see it with his eyes; he'd seen it a dozen times before and he could see it clearly in his head. Green eyes widened, his mouth open in a grimace as the pain gutted him. Angel listened to it, the sudden upward stutter of his heartbeat and it was long seconds before it slowed and Doyle took a deep breath, signaling its end.
He expected to hear the shower after that and then damp, clean skin would be beside him in the bed, and there would be drowsy, reluctant sex. Angel sighed and shifted as his body reacted with predictable eagerness. He didn't mind being persuasive and Doyle was oddly adorable in his reluctance, almost shy if he were allowed to call it that, shivering with each gentle touch. It was like he wanted to be coaxed into it and Angel could almost admit that he liked that, and drifted to sleep waiting for it.
The sound that woke him was familiar but not here in his home. Angel was on his feet before he was even awake, instinctively following it. He found Doyle near the elevator, curled into himself and his voice already hoarse from screaming.
Angel bent down to touch him and Doyle thrashed under his hand, convulsing with images that Angel couldn't see. He caught him under the armpits and hauled him up, dragged him towards the bed even as another convulsion rocked him. Mumbling useless words of comfort, Angel pulled him into the bedroom and settled him on the bed as carefully as he could. Doyle was gasping like he was drowning, eyes still fixed and glazed, stupid, stubborn bastard.
His shoes were off and thrown to the floor, his shirt mostly unbuttoned before Angel realized Doyle's fumbling arms were fighting him and Doyle was speaking, mumbling, over and over again, "No…no…ain't gonna…"
"Doyle, you know what will happen if—" Angel tried to say it gently but Doyle's struggles were getting stronger, fueled with drunken panic. One hand struck him in the face, more startling than painful and Angel caught it, using his own strength and weight to pin Doyle against the bed before he could hurt either of them.
"Doyle," Angel tried to talk to him through the rising volume of whimpers and pleas of no, please, no. The struggling body beneath his own was hot with effort, his wrists clammy and sweaty in Angel's hands. His own guilt was so sudden and heavy it was like something living he could hold in his hands.
There was a new stink in the air, electric and bright blue to his senses. Not exactly fear, the pureness born only of sheer panic. Doyle was shuddering with it, his face blurring briefly into his demon visage and back, and he was twisting his hands in Angel's grip, trying uselessly to break free.
Angel watched Doyle tremble underneath him, his eyes closed tightly against whatever it was he couldn't help seeing, and didn't know what he was supposed to do. The body beneath his own was half-naked, his legs forcibly spread by Angel between them.
Do you want to make me rape you every night.
"Doyle," he whispered, his own voice cracking, and something about his quiet tone made Doyle still, panting and shaking. "They won't stop."
"I don't care," he moaned. He shook his head as if to deny all of it, droplets of sweat clinging to the ends of his hair spattering them both. "I don't wanna do this anymore. I'm more than this! I'm more than just your nightly fuck-fest."
Doyle was stiff beneath him and Angel slowly let him go, easing off him to stand by the bed.
He didn't move, stayed sprawled on the bed like a broken doll and his laughter was bitter and just as broken. "Oh, but I forgot, you're the one getting forced into this, isn't that right? Not like you chose to fight the evil undead, it's not like you wanted to…I just wanted to be left alone."
He was weeping, rolling to bury his face in his arms. "I couldna helped them anyway, God—" He trailed off into a garbled shriek, arching like he was caught in an electric current and it was worse than anything Angel had seen, pain that wouldn't even let him breathe and his face was contorted in a raw, silent scream.
Angel couldn't even bear to watch it, can't imagine how it must feel. "Stop it," he shouted at the ceiling. "Stop hurting him, I'll do it!" He pulled the drawer in the bedside table completely out, fumbling through it to find the tube that they hadn't used since they'd left for Sunnydale. The drawer he flung aside, heard it splinter against the wall and didn't care.
The vision had left Doyle gasping and weak, and Angel ruthlessly took advantage of his languidness, yanking off his pants hard enough that the seams groaned a protest. He remembered that first time, Doyle begging him to hurry, please hurry before another vision hit and Angel could do that, his body's eagerness was a new kind of shame but he'd use it anyway.
Only this Doyle was waking up from the vision and fighting him, snarling drunkenly without even words. Angel was trying to be gentle, trying not to hurt him more than he had to and when a vision hit he was almost grateful. Struggles dimmed into seismic trembling and it made it easy to push his slick fingers inside, readying Doyle as much as he could hope to. His hands felt suddenly clumsy and too large, spreading Doyle open beneath him, sliding his legs over his shoulders, positioning him even as he slowly came back from whatever hell his visions sent him.
His struggles took on an edge of franticness, blurring into the strength of his demon side and back, like he couldn't control the two halves and they were blending into something else entirely. It didn't matter, neither nor both were stronger than a vampire and his next scream was of frustration, echoing through the basement as he tore bruises into his wrists trying to free them.
"I hate you," Doyle breathed, and God, that hurt, like a splinter of wood lodged next to his heart.
"I know," Angel said softly. He eased into him, deeply, Doyle still brutally tight but none of it could keep Angel from pressing deeper, not the sudden, sweet clench of muscles around him, not Doyle's high-pitched gasp, his head thrown back against the blankets in a mockery of vision-pain. Slowly, Angel pulled out, drawing another whimper from Doyle with him and then back in, torn between hurrying and getting it over with and not hurting Doyle.
Doyle went suddenly, completely limp and for a moment Angel thought he'd passed out. Then he saw the faintest gleam from his eyes, barely open and knew he'd given up, and that was even worse. Worse that part of him was enjoying this, exalting in it, and he fucked Doyle as gently as he could, trying not to get rough. No more bruises, please, no more.
"It's all right," Angel murmured, and he was shocked to hear something like a sob in his voice. "This—this will help the visions, I promise, I—" He stuttered to a stop, closed his eyes and tried to hurry.
Doyle gasped, arching his back, "...hurts..." he mumbled and Angel froze.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, gentling his movements. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." A soft apology for each thrust and Doyle was writhing with him now, struggling against Angel's imprisoning hands again and this time Angel simply let him go. Enough bruises, enough pain and if Doyle wanted to gouge his eyes out with his thumbs, Angel would let him.
There was a tiny shock of pain, Doyle's short nails digging into Angel's scalp as he yanked him down and the sudden heat of his mouth, sloppy and wet, flavored with cheap whiskey, stilled him.
"…s'not you," he whispered harshly into Angel's mouth, "Just—ah! Don't stop. God, don't stop." Desperate kisses, their teeth clicking painfully and the feel of Doyle's tongue in his mouth was strange and exotic, tasted so briefly once before when this began. His hands were brutally tight in Angel's hair, refusing to let him pull away.
Angel reached up, touched the backs of them tentatively until they eased back down, let Angel twine their fingers together and press their combined hands back against the comforter.
His mouth was oddly cooler on the inside, the taste of him beneath the whiskey and smoke like an addiction. He couldn't stop moving, thrusting into heat that was suddenly eager for him, hips that arching up against him. Doyle was bent nearly double, his breathing a harsh rasp beneath Angel's weight.
"God, so good," Doyle groaned, the softest vibration against Angel's lips. "Good. Don't stop, s'good."
"Yeah," Angel husked. He didn't, couldn't, rocking in and out as slowly as he could, while Doyle pleaded for more, incoherent cries and moans. It was incredible, the hot velvet clench around him, Doyle's fingers laced so tightly with his own he could feel the tendons straining. This was, God, there weren't words, this was art drawn with sweat and skin, and he couldn't stop, couldn't, God, couldn't.
Angel tore his mouth from Doyle's, buried his face against the knee resting on his shoulder, "Jesus, Doyle," he whimpered.
"Angel," Doyle's voice broke on his name, Doyle was broken beneath him, his face flushed and damp, and he still stank of whiskey and smoke, Angel could taste it in his sweat and didn't care. He felt the sudden heat of a tongue against his neck, Doyle licking his way up the jugular, the barest hint of teeth and that finished him. He thought he might have screamed, certainly someone did and his orgasm boiled out of him, burned through him and blinded him, and it was so fucking good. He tasted salt on his lips, sweat he thought, and the sudden tightening around his cock as Doyle came made him hiss softly, so sensitive it was nearly a kind of pain.
He didn't remember pulling out or moving aside, Doyle barely managing to breathe beneath him. Didn't remember anything, until he woke again, the clock telling him through the gloom that it was barely five, and Doyle was gone.
~~*~~
End chapter
