A:TS FIC: Dead Things (Connor, R)
I am at work. Working v. hard. Paris soon. That is all. Bed.
Title: Dead Things (a.k.a. Mommy's Boy)
Fandom: AtS
Summary: Again with the post-NFA. Connor goes clubbing. Ish.
Rating: R for naughty language. And sex. *gasp* Boys! Having sex! With girls! And other girls! And, also, drugs! *more gasping* I'm a one-woman Larry Flint.
*
The first time he kills a girl, it's an accident. No, he should say: the first time he thinks that he might have killed a girl, it is likely that she managed it all by herself. He thinks on it for a while before deciding that, ultimately, it didn't make much difference either way. The facts of it are clear enough: they're at a club - somewhere in the mid-west, maybe - and a little blister pack is making its way through the crowd. Freebies or samples or a passed-out owner; it doesn't much matter. She pops one, mouth cherry-red as she sticks out her tongue, and he follows suit.
- the little pill is blue, with a smiley face on it / it disappears down her throat, and he chases it, first with a kiss, then with a shot, then with another shot -
It is one month to the day that ashes filled the air (an orphan already?) and he does not remember the night. It does not matter.
(when he wakes up in the morning, she's already cold)
The younger him would have stayed. The older him - a few scant months of wisdom, or a lifetime, however truth defines itself - knows better. He calls an ambulance and leaves, driving over the limit with pupils still dilated and the smell of vomit lingering. (Still the mid-west? All he knows is to keep driving east; as far away from angels and their fall as the world would permit.)
Disoriented, he thinks about calling home, before he remembers that 'home' is under quarantine. Maybe he should try one of the National Helplines, he thinks.
- and the next time / and the next / they always wake up dead -
After about the fifth one, he starts to wonder if he's seeking out the ones likely to die, or if he's killing ones who wouldn't mind it terribly much. Just like in all those vampire movies, he thinks, like a honeytrap in reverse...
(he wonders, briefly, if he should call up a Slayer and see what all the fuss is about)
The next night (Detroit?) he passes straight by the soft and warm young girls clamouring for his attention, stroking his hair and tugging at him hungrily, until he finds one (a girl? what other word does he have for what she is?) already cold and hard. You're pretty, he says, heedless of the hungry smile, and lets her lead him to her bed. There, she spreads herself across the white expanse (a virgin sacrifice, he thinks, and bites down on the giggles), wriggling out of her bra and panties with unseemly haste and pulling him down to lie atop her. Wait, he says, stilling her. Wait. His hands trace the contours of her face, the gentle shifting of bone and muscle and the hum of magic foreign yet familiar, like an infant learning a mother's scent. He burrows his nose in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply (nothing / nothing / nothing) and stroking her blue scarf gently, his fingers against her still throat. Wait, he says again, and presses down across her mouth, silent as he spreads her open and pushes into her. She is thick and unyielding around him -
- like cold meat / and his eyes flutter shut -
She laughs, shaking herself free of his hands. You're a little freak, aren't you? Normal people don't want to put their cock in cold things, she says, eyes bright, her legs wrapped around him and her fangs pearl-white.
He's gasping, still young and too-eager as he fucks her, hands grasping across her neck and shoulders. Dead things, he says with half a breath, and pulls the blue scarf around her neck tighter.
Her eyes (blue, blue, blue) wide, she tries to pull away. What are you doing? Her muscles tighten around him as she struggles, pushing hard against him and falling short. Her needless breath comes in little gasps as she stares up at him, all blonde hair and startled blue eyes and rosebud mouth (like looking into a mirror) -
- why do you care, he asks, you're already dead / maybe so, maybe so, let go of me, please, please -
Call me Connor, he says, and pulls the scarf tighter.
*
fin
Title: Dead Things (a.k.a. Mommy's Boy)
Fandom: AtS
Summary: Again with the post-NFA. Connor goes clubbing. Ish.
Rating: R for naughty language. And sex. *gasp* Boys! Having sex! With girls! And other girls! And, also, drugs! *more gasping* I'm a one-woman Larry Flint.
*
The first time he kills a girl, it's an accident. No, he should say: the first time he thinks that he might have killed a girl, it is likely that she managed it all by herself. He thinks on it for a while before deciding that, ultimately, it didn't make much difference either way. The facts of it are clear enough: they're at a club - somewhere in the mid-west, maybe - and a little blister pack is making its way through the crowd. Freebies or samples or a passed-out owner; it doesn't much matter. She pops one, mouth cherry-red as she sticks out her tongue, and he follows suit.
- the little pill is blue, with a smiley face on it / it disappears down her throat, and he chases it, first with a kiss, then with a shot, then with another shot -
It is one month to the day that ashes filled the air (an orphan already?) and he does not remember the night. It does not matter.
(when he wakes up in the morning, she's already cold)
The younger him would have stayed. The older him - a few scant months of wisdom, or a lifetime, however truth defines itself - knows better. He calls an ambulance and leaves, driving over the limit with pupils still dilated and the smell of vomit lingering. (Still the mid-west? All he knows is to keep driving east; as far away from angels and their fall as the world would permit.)
Disoriented, he thinks about calling home, before he remembers that 'home' is under quarantine. Maybe he should try one of the National Helplines, he thinks.
- and the next time / and the next / they always wake up dead -
After about the fifth one, he starts to wonder if he's seeking out the ones likely to die, or if he's killing ones who wouldn't mind it terribly much. Just like in all those vampire movies, he thinks, like a honeytrap in reverse...
(he wonders, briefly, if he should call up a Slayer and see what all the fuss is about)
The next night (Detroit?) he passes straight by the soft and warm young girls clamouring for his attention, stroking his hair and tugging at him hungrily, until he finds one (a girl? what other word does he have for what she is?) already cold and hard. You're pretty, he says, heedless of the hungry smile, and lets her lead him to her bed. There, she spreads herself across the white expanse (a virgin sacrifice, he thinks, and bites down on the giggles), wriggling out of her bra and panties with unseemly haste and pulling him down to lie atop her. Wait, he says, stilling her. Wait. His hands trace the contours of her face, the gentle shifting of bone and muscle and the hum of magic foreign yet familiar, like an infant learning a mother's scent. He burrows his nose in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply (nothing / nothing / nothing) and stroking her blue scarf gently, his fingers against her still throat. Wait, he says again, and presses down across her mouth, silent as he spreads her open and pushes into her. She is thick and unyielding around him -
- like cold meat / and his eyes flutter shut -
She laughs, shaking herself free of his hands. You're a little freak, aren't you? Normal people don't want to put their cock in cold things, she says, eyes bright, her legs wrapped around him and her fangs pearl-white.
He's gasping, still young and too-eager as he fucks her, hands grasping across her neck and shoulders. Dead things, he says with half a breath, and pulls the blue scarf around her neck tighter.
Her eyes (blue, blue, blue) wide, she tries to pull away. What are you doing? Her muscles tighten around him as she struggles, pushing hard against him and falling short. Her needless breath comes in little gasps as she stares up at him, all blonde hair and startled blue eyes and rosebud mouth (like looking into a mirror) -
- why do you care, he asks, you're already dead / maybe so, maybe so, let go of me, please, please -
Call me Connor, he says, and pulls the scarf tighter.
*
fin