Angel/Doyle, NC-17, Strawberry Fields, 2/?
Title: Strawberry Fields, 2/?
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.
~~*~~
He woke up feeling cold, not something he was accustomed to feeling. Angel automatically burrowed deeper into the blankets, pulling them over this head. Just because the cold wouldn't hurt a vampire didn't mean they liked feeling it. It was already too late; he was more awake than asleep, his brain starting to percolate and he started to remember. Doyle, the visions...the sex.
The bed next to him was empty but still warm. Lifting his head from the blankets, Angel peered around the room. Nothing, which meant Doyle had left or-a sound from the bathroom told him it was the second option. Angel rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He should probably get up and get some clothes on before Doyle came back out here. Maybe he should make breakfast or something, not that he had a lot of food in his refrigerator. Cordelia made an attempt to keep a small stock of groceries down here, although after having to throw away a carton of milk that was so far past the expiration date it had been spreadable, Angel had kept better track of what she'd left. At this particular moment, it wasn't much.
He was trying to remember if he'd ever seen Doyle eating Light 'n Fit yogurt when the man in question came out of the bathroom looking-pretty much as bad as he had the night before. Spending the night in a pile on the floor didn't seem to have done much for his wardrobe. From the rush of steam, Angel was guessing he'd used the shower and his hair was standing at odd angles. How was it that these people couldn't do their hair without a mirror? He'd been managing it for the better part of two centuries without any added mental trauma.
Worse was the way Doyle was walking, shuffling practically to one of the large chairs that was against the wall. Angel watched as he lowered himself into one like an old man, groaning as he settled on the soft cushions. An apology sprang to his lips automatically and stayed there, unspoken. That was an early morning conversation that he wanted to have exactly never.
Gee, Doyle, I'm really sorry for fucking bruises into your internal organs. Angel shuddered silently. No, that was not going to be said, especially before coffee.
Doyle just noticed he was awake and he swallowed hard, staring at the knot of his hands in his lap. "Hey."
"Morning," Angel said, volleying the burden of conversation back to Doyle. He didn't catch it, instead letting it fall limply between them. Angel was starting to regret very much that he hadn't taken the opportunity to put his pants on. At this particular moment, the bed would have to be actively on fire for him to feel like getting out of it.
Doyle was still staring at his hands, as completely out of his depth as Angel. Seeing it gave Angel the strength to speak again. "Did you, um, want some breakfast?" he fumbled out. Oh, yeah, he was a man about town. Maybe he could get some track lighting and turn up the bass on his home theater system.
Doyle didn't seem to mind, latching on to the gambit gratefully. "I could eat." He met Angel's eyes, briefly, before his gaze skittered away. "I'll just go into the kitchen."
"Thank you," Angel muttered, waiting for him to walk carefully into the other room before climbing out of the bed. He dressed quickly, barely looking at what he was shrugging into. A shower would wait until later, even though he could smell-
Angel groaned. He could smell pure sex, the heavy salt mixture of sweat and semen. His body responded automatically and with some difficulty, Angel fastened his pants. "Where were you when I needed you last night?" Angel muttered, making sure his shirt was untucked.
It was easier in the kitchen, plenty of things to play with awkwardly rather than talk. Eggs to crack and mix into the semblance of an omelet to set in front of Doyle, who seemed intent on staring at anything that was nowhere near Angel. He muttered a thank you and started eating, shoveling it in with surprisingly enthusiasm. Constant visions probably did have an effect on the appetite.
Angel poured blood into a mug for his own breakfast, watched it turn circles in the microwave, watching Doyle eat out of the corner of his eye. His fork scraping on the plain white plate, Doyle was eating with a determination that spoke of his discomfort.
I know exactly how you feel, Angel thought wryly, taking a sip from the mug. Down to the last internal squirm. This is what happened with the passage of time. When he'd been alive, things had been much simpler. Bellow out a goodbye, stagger home and fall asleep outside in the stable. Now there were mornings after, and knowing that eventually they would have to talk about why. Which could hopefully wait until the worst of the bruises were healed and he had showered, and he really wished he hadn't remembered that. He took another sip, washing away the scent of sex on the back of his tongue with animal blood.
"Hello? Anyone alive down there or a reasonable facsimile of it?" They both turned to watch Cordelia push open the lift door and peer inside. Seeing Angel, she walked briskly in, stopping in surprise when she realized Doyle was sitting at the table, finishing up the last of his breakfast.
"You're in early," she frowned. "Did you have a vision or something?" Doyle went very still and glanced at Angel so briefly that he almost didn't see it. The corners of his eyes were marked with tiny lines of broken blood vessels, evidence of pain and exhaustion.
"No," Doyle replied, shortly. He stood and set his plate in the sink, rinsing it quickly. "I've got a few things that need taking care of. I'll see if I can't catch up with you in a couple hours." His gait was fairly normal as he walked to the elevator. It was obvious only to Angel that he had to concentrate to keep it that way.
Cordelia took his chair and shook her head. "Well, he's cheery in the early hours, are you cooking?"
Angel was still looking at the elevator door. "What? Oh, yeah, sure." He set his barely touched cup on the counter and opened the refrigerator in search of more eggs. It was easier to concentrate on that for the moment, cracking the eggs into the bowl he'd used before and whisking them into a frothy mass.
"You should probably get over to Stalker Lady's house too, and get the details of Mr. Not-So-Right."
"Yeah," he agreed absently. Feed Cordelia, help lady being stalked. See Spot Run. He could handle that right now. Doyle he would handle later. Ignoring the sudden rush of embarrassment from that thought, Angel concentrated on not burning the eggs.
~~*~~
One of the biggest perks of wearing all dark clothing was that it made laundry a lot quicker. Angel was folding the last of it, stacking another towel on top of the growing pile. A half-full basket was at his feet, more towels and sheets waiting to be folded.
The case earlier in the day had been far too easy, typical moronic boyfriend going right after the girl after he'd only just been released. He was back in jail, this time with a much higher bail, and Angel was back here, doing laundry. Waiting. Killing time was less enjoyable than killing demons and now that his laundry was finished, he was starting to run out of mindless tasks. He'd managed to keep his mind carefully blank for most of the day, between working the stalker case and doing housework. Maybe the kitchen floor could use a wash.
Angel paused, a small towel hanging from his hands. Was it really that difficult to think about the sex, try to figure out what it was the Powers wanted from them?
God, yes.
It was like having sex again, without his soul winging away in the aftermath, had reawakened his carefully dormant hormones. He'd spent half the day trying to walk normally, grateful that his shirt was long enough to cover the not so little problem. Walking into the apartment had been like getting slapped in the face with it, Essence of Sex, and all of it smelled like Doyle.
Completely absurd, considering he'd never even looked at Doyle as a sexual creature before but his body didn't seem to be giving a damn, given the way he'd looked the night before. So pale, stretched out beneath him. A touch too thin, his ankles had been bony and hard, all of him hard and dusted with dark sprigs of hair, a crosshatched pattern that led downward to where Angel had been inside, hot, volcanic heat and he'd--
And he'd cried.
Angel leapt at the sudden pounding on the door, accidentally tearing the towel he was holding in half. He tossed the ragged pieces on the washer with an internal sigh and went to answer it.
He didn't collapse the moment Angel opened the door this time, stood there instead with clear, green eyes that met Angel's pin-straight for the first time since they'd started this. Strained, not quite desperate but it wouldn't take long to get there, not long at all. Now they were going to talk, spill out everything between them and they could figure out what the hell had happened.
"I need you to do it again."
Angel's thoughts stuttered to a halt. "Wha-" He didn't have a chance to continue, Doyle pushed past him and braced his arms against the top of the sofa, leaned against it.
"I need you to do it again," he repeated, his fingers buried in the soft fabric as he gripped it. "After last night, it was all right for a while, you know? But then, I had another one just on my way here. So we have to do it again." Doyle turned to him, eyes pleading, and Angel had to fight the urge to go to him. It was just the five steps between them, Angel could push him back against the sofa and have him, right there. He didn't move. Because this was not right, not even really sex, this was Doyle whoring himself out to stop the pain and no amount of hormonal insanity was going to make that all right.
"Doyle," Angel began, trying to be gentle, "We need to talk first, all right? We need to find out what's going on so we can stop it."
Doyle was already shaking his head, the same franticness of the night before seeping into him. "We already know how to stop it, don't we? Have us a quickie, you bang off, and I get a good night's sleep. Seems pretty straightforward to me."
Angel looked at him silently for a beat, studying Doyle's earnest face before saying, softly, "I'm sorry I hurt you last night."
"What?" Doyle blinked and shook his head wildly. "Fine, man, great, apology accepted, can we get on with it?" He walked up to Angel and pressed against him with the same, soft tilt to the head that had seduced the demon in him a hundred times before Doyle's grandfather had been born. Begging for someone to kiss that soft, sweet line, down to the point of his pulse where redness would boil out, sweet and hot.
Instead, Angel caught his shoulders and held Doyle away from him. "We can't just keep doing this to get rid of the visions. We need to find out what's causing them to begin with."
Doyle jerked away from him, burying his face in his hands. There was one long, hitched breath and he looked up again. Probably a little drunk, Angel could smell a trace of liquor, beneath it his own shampoo and then just Doyle. That something strange that he'd smelled on him before, that he hadn't quite placed but as he inhaled it again, it clicked in his head, an ancient key in an old lock.
Heavy and salt, oddly reminiscent of mown hay, Doyle smelled like semen, like he'd jerked off in the car on the way here, and maybe he had, maybe it helped stave off the visions or maybe that was just the reaction he had to them.
They'd already done it once..."All right, for tonight. But tomorrow we figure this out."
"You got it, man," Relief smoothed lines on Doyle's face that Angel hadn't even noticed until they were gone.
He didn't carry Doyle to the bed this time, giving in to that urge to simply push him against the back of the sofa. For just a moment, he let himself press his face into the curve of Doyle's neck and inhaled, salt-sweet skin that he didn't dare taste, the thrum of the blood beneath it and the hot scent of fear, trembling in the air.
"It's all right," he murmured, felt Doyle shudder when his lips brushed his neck. Quickly, he changed tactics, sliding up to lick at Doyle's ear. That was too much of a guilty pleasure, and wasn't he indulging in enough?
Doyle's hands were between them, fumbling at his shirt and Angel helped him pull it over his head, leaving hard, smooth skin free for the touching. This was so different from being with a woman, even as a soulless vampire. Darla had been demanding in her own right, wanting the sweet coaxing that all women seemed to crave and for all her insanity, Dru had been much the same. And Buffy-he didn't want to think about Buffy.
Doyle hardly needed any coaxing, already hard against Angel's thigh and Angel caught him by the hips and lifted, grinding them together. The couch skittered on the hard floor and they followed it, until it hit the wall, the sudden jolt making them both gasp.
"Can you quit messing around and just do it?" Doyle hissed, shoving Angel back as he fought to get his pants undone.
Stung, Angel stepped away. "I'm sorry but sacrificial lambs lost their appeal a few decades ago." He opened his own pants more slowly, kicking them off to reveal he wasn't quite as ready as Doyle wanted him to be. Vampire blood was more sluggish than a human's, without a heartbeat to push it along, it was less eager to flow to areas that really needed it.
He fought the urge to flinch at Doyle's critical look. "Yeah, no one gives a decent gift these days."
Angel didn't even have a chance to flinch as Doyle sank to his knees, and, God, practically inhaled his cock, and if he was hot elsewhere the wet suction of his mouth could have melted steel.
At the moment, it was forging it instead, warm hands sliding down the back of Angel's thighs as Doyle sucked him in deeply. As long as it had been between blowjobs, he could still register Doyle's clumsiness, trying to work his tongue around the thickness of Angel's cock in his mouth but he was sucking like the survival of the world was hinged on his ability to deep-throat. Angel felt the wood frame of the sofa splintering beneath his grip and couldn't make himself let go because Doyle's mouth was brutal and cruel and better he break the sofa than accidentally take off Doyle's head.
He actually cried out at the loss as Doyle let him go, the air suddenly cold on his wet skin. The half-demon scrambled to his feet, bracing his arms against the sofa back, on either side of Angel's.
"Now do it," Doyle panted, his head lowered. It gave Angel a brief glimpse of wet, reddened lips and then he was ghosting a hand down Doyle's back, and lower.
"Wait, I need-"
"No, you don't. Do it!"
He was shaking so hard he had to try twice to position himself and Doyle was right, he was already slick inside which meant he'd done it before he came over tonight. One long, hard glide inside and gray sparkled in Angel's vision, the heat of him scalding against Angel's cooler skin.
Doyle choked out a sound, something Angel couldn't even try to understand and he forced himself to keep it gentle, battering the demon within him back. No, he told it fiercely, I'm doing this, and I'm not going to hurt him again.
Braced on one hand, Angel slid the other over Doyle's chest, slippery wet with sweat and then lower, exploring without a hint of yesterday's hesitancy. Between his legs, crisp hair and the heaviness of his balls in Angel's palm and he felt more than heard Doyle gasp, one hand flailing at Angel's arm to stop him.
Deliberately, Angel pushed hard into him, forcing Doyle to brace himself with both arms to keep from smashing his face into the back of the sofa. "I told you, no sacrificial lambs," he whispered into Doyle's ear before sliding his tongue over it, wet and nasty and got a harsh cry in response.
He couldn't stop now, hunching his hips in quick, stilted thrusts. The angle was bad and he could see little drops of sweat clinging to the ends of Doyle's dark hair, splattering down onto skin as each push rocked into him.
One of Doyle's hands was over his on the sofa, short nails digging in until there was a fresh scent spilling into the air, blood, and Angel couldn't stop the demon from showing itself on his face but he could keep it from hurting Doyle, even as he was losing it beneath him, throwing his head back against Angel's shoulder as he cried out and came. That same painful heat pouring over Angel's hand, the smell of it fresh and heavy in his sinuses, and his senses overloaded as he wondering what it might taste like, if it was the same sea flavor as the scent. Orgasm was almost too pale a word for it, coming for what felt like a small eternity and, God it was good, too good, wicked and wonderful.
For a long moment Angel forgot he didn't have to breathe, the feel of Doyle's heart hammering against his hand like a memory of being human. He pressed his face between Doyle's shoulder blades and willed it into smoother lines before he pulled back, just a little. Not out, because his body was still pulsing with it, and he should pull away because this wasn't what either of them had really wanted but it had still been…
…so good.
"Are you all right?" Angel managed to whisper. His voice was a dry rasp and he swallowed hard, trying to work some moisture into his mouth. Doyle was completely still beneath him, his face buried in his arms, didn't even make a sound as Angel finally withdrew. Panic flashed through him, that despite his best efforts he'd hurt his friend anyway, and Angel touched him gingerly, softly, "Doyle?"
"Why did you do that?" Barely a whisper, muffled into Doyle's arms.
"I-" Angel hesitated, feeling that same nakedness he had the night before. "I did what you asked me to do."
"No." Doyle straightened, pulling away from Angel's touch. "No, I just wanted you to fuck me. I didn't mean I wanted you to make me-" He choked off the words and closed his eyes.
"Make you what?" It was slowly coming into focus and Angel could only stare at his friend disbelievingly. "Made you like it?" Doyle shuddered, wrapped his arms tightly around himself. "That's…what are you talking about? If you have to be here anyway, you may as well enjoy it, right?"
"No," Doyle whispered, eyes still closed. "It's not right at all." He moved slowly, stooping to pick up his clothes without looking once at Angel, walking around him as though he were a lamp or a chair, before walking silently into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him and Angel heard the lock click.
Angel stood in the middle of the shambles of his living room, his own clothes still scattered at his feet, the evidence drying on the back of the mostly ruined sofa. The water sprang on in the bathroom and he listened to Doyle showering, washing away the sex as quickly as he could.
Well, fuck.
~~*~~
End Part 2
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.
~~*~~
He woke up feeling cold, not something he was accustomed to feeling. Angel automatically burrowed deeper into the blankets, pulling them over this head. Just because the cold wouldn't hurt a vampire didn't mean they liked feeling it. It was already too late; he was more awake than asleep, his brain starting to percolate and he started to remember. Doyle, the visions...the sex.
The bed next to him was empty but still warm. Lifting his head from the blankets, Angel peered around the room. Nothing, which meant Doyle had left or-a sound from the bathroom told him it was the second option. Angel rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He should probably get up and get some clothes on before Doyle came back out here. Maybe he should make breakfast or something, not that he had a lot of food in his refrigerator. Cordelia made an attempt to keep a small stock of groceries down here, although after having to throw away a carton of milk that was so far past the expiration date it had been spreadable, Angel had kept better track of what she'd left. At this particular moment, it wasn't much.
He was trying to remember if he'd ever seen Doyle eating Light 'n Fit yogurt when the man in question came out of the bathroom looking-pretty much as bad as he had the night before. Spending the night in a pile on the floor didn't seem to have done much for his wardrobe. From the rush of steam, Angel was guessing he'd used the shower and his hair was standing at odd angles. How was it that these people couldn't do their hair without a mirror? He'd been managing it for the better part of two centuries without any added mental trauma.
Worse was the way Doyle was walking, shuffling practically to one of the large chairs that was against the wall. Angel watched as he lowered himself into one like an old man, groaning as he settled on the soft cushions. An apology sprang to his lips automatically and stayed there, unspoken. That was an early morning conversation that he wanted to have exactly never.
Gee, Doyle, I'm really sorry for fucking bruises into your internal organs. Angel shuddered silently. No, that was not going to be said, especially before coffee.
Doyle just noticed he was awake and he swallowed hard, staring at the knot of his hands in his lap. "Hey."
"Morning," Angel said, volleying the burden of conversation back to Doyle. He didn't catch it, instead letting it fall limply between them. Angel was starting to regret very much that he hadn't taken the opportunity to put his pants on. At this particular moment, the bed would have to be actively on fire for him to feel like getting out of it.
Doyle was still staring at his hands, as completely out of his depth as Angel. Seeing it gave Angel the strength to speak again. "Did you, um, want some breakfast?" he fumbled out. Oh, yeah, he was a man about town. Maybe he could get some track lighting and turn up the bass on his home theater system.
Doyle didn't seem to mind, latching on to the gambit gratefully. "I could eat." He met Angel's eyes, briefly, before his gaze skittered away. "I'll just go into the kitchen."
"Thank you," Angel muttered, waiting for him to walk carefully into the other room before climbing out of the bed. He dressed quickly, barely looking at what he was shrugging into. A shower would wait until later, even though he could smell-
Angel groaned. He could smell pure sex, the heavy salt mixture of sweat and semen. His body responded automatically and with some difficulty, Angel fastened his pants. "Where were you when I needed you last night?" Angel muttered, making sure his shirt was untucked.
It was easier in the kitchen, plenty of things to play with awkwardly rather than talk. Eggs to crack and mix into the semblance of an omelet to set in front of Doyle, who seemed intent on staring at anything that was nowhere near Angel. He muttered a thank you and started eating, shoveling it in with surprisingly enthusiasm. Constant visions probably did have an effect on the appetite.
Angel poured blood into a mug for his own breakfast, watched it turn circles in the microwave, watching Doyle eat out of the corner of his eye. His fork scraping on the plain white plate, Doyle was eating with a determination that spoke of his discomfort.
I know exactly how you feel, Angel thought wryly, taking a sip from the mug. Down to the last internal squirm. This is what happened with the passage of time. When he'd been alive, things had been much simpler. Bellow out a goodbye, stagger home and fall asleep outside in the stable. Now there were mornings after, and knowing that eventually they would have to talk about why. Which could hopefully wait until the worst of the bruises were healed and he had showered, and he really wished he hadn't remembered that. He took another sip, washing away the scent of sex on the back of his tongue with animal blood.
"Hello? Anyone alive down there or a reasonable facsimile of it?" They both turned to watch Cordelia push open the lift door and peer inside. Seeing Angel, she walked briskly in, stopping in surprise when she realized Doyle was sitting at the table, finishing up the last of his breakfast.
"You're in early," she frowned. "Did you have a vision or something?" Doyle went very still and glanced at Angel so briefly that he almost didn't see it. The corners of his eyes were marked with tiny lines of broken blood vessels, evidence of pain and exhaustion.
"No," Doyle replied, shortly. He stood and set his plate in the sink, rinsing it quickly. "I've got a few things that need taking care of. I'll see if I can't catch up with you in a couple hours." His gait was fairly normal as he walked to the elevator. It was obvious only to Angel that he had to concentrate to keep it that way.
Cordelia took his chair and shook her head. "Well, he's cheery in the early hours, are you cooking?"
Angel was still looking at the elevator door. "What? Oh, yeah, sure." He set his barely touched cup on the counter and opened the refrigerator in search of more eggs. It was easier to concentrate on that for the moment, cracking the eggs into the bowl he'd used before and whisking them into a frothy mass.
"You should probably get over to Stalker Lady's house too, and get the details of Mr. Not-So-Right."
"Yeah," he agreed absently. Feed Cordelia, help lady being stalked. See Spot Run. He could handle that right now. Doyle he would handle later. Ignoring the sudden rush of embarrassment from that thought, Angel concentrated on not burning the eggs.
~~*~~
One of the biggest perks of wearing all dark clothing was that it made laundry a lot quicker. Angel was folding the last of it, stacking another towel on top of the growing pile. A half-full basket was at his feet, more towels and sheets waiting to be folded.
The case earlier in the day had been far too easy, typical moronic boyfriend going right after the girl after he'd only just been released. He was back in jail, this time with a much higher bail, and Angel was back here, doing laundry. Waiting. Killing time was less enjoyable than killing demons and now that his laundry was finished, he was starting to run out of mindless tasks. He'd managed to keep his mind carefully blank for most of the day, between working the stalker case and doing housework. Maybe the kitchen floor could use a wash.
Angel paused, a small towel hanging from his hands. Was it really that difficult to think about the sex, try to figure out what it was the Powers wanted from them?
God, yes.
It was like having sex again, without his soul winging away in the aftermath, had reawakened his carefully dormant hormones. He'd spent half the day trying to walk normally, grateful that his shirt was long enough to cover the not so little problem. Walking into the apartment had been like getting slapped in the face with it, Essence of Sex, and all of it smelled like Doyle.
Completely absurd, considering he'd never even looked at Doyle as a sexual creature before but his body didn't seem to be giving a damn, given the way he'd looked the night before. So pale, stretched out beneath him. A touch too thin, his ankles had been bony and hard, all of him hard and dusted with dark sprigs of hair, a crosshatched pattern that led downward to where Angel had been inside, hot, volcanic heat and he'd--
And he'd cried.
Angel leapt at the sudden pounding on the door, accidentally tearing the towel he was holding in half. He tossed the ragged pieces on the washer with an internal sigh and went to answer it.
He didn't collapse the moment Angel opened the door this time, stood there instead with clear, green eyes that met Angel's pin-straight for the first time since they'd started this. Strained, not quite desperate but it wouldn't take long to get there, not long at all. Now they were going to talk, spill out everything between them and they could figure out what the hell had happened.
"I need you to do it again."
Angel's thoughts stuttered to a halt. "Wha-" He didn't have a chance to continue, Doyle pushed past him and braced his arms against the top of the sofa, leaned against it.
"I need you to do it again," he repeated, his fingers buried in the soft fabric as he gripped it. "After last night, it was all right for a while, you know? But then, I had another one just on my way here. So we have to do it again." Doyle turned to him, eyes pleading, and Angel had to fight the urge to go to him. It was just the five steps between them, Angel could push him back against the sofa and have him, right there. He didn't move. Because this was not right, not even really sex, this was Doyle whoring himself out to stop the pain and no amount of hormonal insanity was going to make that all right.
"Doyle," Angel began, trying to be gentle, "We need to talk first, all right? We need to find out what's going on so we can stop it."
Doyle was already shaking his head, the same franticness of the night before seeping into him. "We already know how to stop it, don't we? Have us a quickie, you bang off, and I get a good night's sleep. Seems pretty straightforward to me."
Angel looked at him silently for a beat, studying Doyle's earnest face before saying, softly, "I'm sorry I hurt you last night."
"What?" Doyle blinked and shook his head wildly. "Fine, man, great, apology accepted, can we get on with it?" He walked up to Angel and pressed against him with the same, soft tilt to the head that had seduced the demon in him a hundred times before Doyle's grandfather had been born. Begging for someone to kiss that soft, sweet line, down to the point of his pulse where redness would boil out, sweet and hot.
Instead, Angel caught his shoulders and held Doyle away from him. "We can't just keep doing this to get rid of the visions. We need to find out what's causing them to begin with."
Doyle jerked away from him, burying his face in his hands. There was one long, hitched breath and he looked up again. Probably a little drunk, Angel could smell a trace of liquor, beneath it his own shampoo and then just Doyle. That something strange that he'd smelled on him before, that he hadn't quite placed but as he inhaled it again, it clicked in his head, an ancient key in an old lock.
Heavy and salt, oddly reminiscent of mown hay, Doyle smelled like semen, like he'd jerked off in the car on the way here, and maybe he had, maybe it helped stave off the visions or maybe that was just the reaction he had to them.
They'd already done it once..."All right, for tonight. But tomorrow we figure this out."
"You got it, man," Relief smoothed lines on Doyle's face that Angel hadn't even noticed until they were gone.
He didn't carry Doyle to the bed this time, giving in to that urge to simply push him against the back of the sofa. For just a moment, he let himself press his face into the curve of Doyle's neck and inhaled, salt-sweet skin that he didn't dare taste, the thrum of the blood beneath it and the hot scent of fear, trembling in the air.
"It's all right," he murmured, felt Doyle shudder when his lips brushed his neck. Quickly, he changed tactics, sliding up to lick at Doyle's ear. That was too much of a guilty pleasure, and wasn't he indulging in enough?
Doyle's hands were between them, fumbling at his shirt and Angel helped him pull it over his head, leaving hard, smooth skin free for the touching. This was so different from being with a woman, even as a soulless vampire. Darla had been demanding in her own right, wanting the sweet coaxing that all women seemed to crave and for all her insanity, Dru had been much the same. And Buffy-he didn't want to think about Buffy.
Doyle hardly needed any coaxing, already hard against Angel's thigh and Angel caught him by the hips and lifted, grinding them together. The couch skittered on the hard floor and they followed it, until it hit the wall, the sudden jolt making them both gasp.
"Can you quit messing around and just do it?" Doyle hissed, shoving Angel back as he fought to get his pants undone.
Stung, Angel stepped away. "I'm sorry but sacrificial lambs lost their appeal a few decades ago." He opened his own pants more slowly, kicking them off to reveal he wasn't quite as ready as Doyle wanted him to be. Vampire blood was more sluggish than a human's, without a heartbeat to push it along, it was less eager to flow to areas that really needed it.
He fought the urge to flinch at Doyle's critical look. "Yeah, no one gives a decent gift these days."
Angel didn't even have a chance to flinch as Doyle sank to his knees, and, God, practically inhaled his cock, and if he was hot elsewhere the wet suction of his mouth could have melted steel.
At the moment, it was forging it instead, warm hands sliding down the back of Angel's thighs as Doyle sucked him in deeply. As long as it had been between blowjobs, he could still register Doyle's clumsiness, trying to work his tongue around the thickness of Angel's cock in his mouth but he was sucking like the survival of the world was hinged on his ability to deep-throat. Angel felt the wood frame of the sofa splintering beneath his grip and couldn't make himself let go because Doyle's mouth was brutal and cruel and better he break the sofa than accidentally take off Doyle's head.
He actually cried out at the loss as Doyle let him go, the air suddenly cold on his wet skin. The half-demon scrambled to his feet, bracing his arms against the sofa back, on either side of Angel's.
"Now do it," Doyle panted, his head lowered. It gave Angel a brief glimpse of wet, reddened lips and then he was ghosting a hand down Doyle's back, and lower.
"Wait, I need-"
"No, you don't. Do it!"
He was shaking so hard he had to try twice to position himself and Doyle was right, he was already slick inside which meant he'd done it before he came over tonight. One long, hard glide inside and gray sparkled in Angel's vision, the heat of him scalding against Angel's cooler skin.
Doyle choked out a sound, something Angel couldn't even try to understand and he forced himself to keep it gentle, battering the demon within him back. No, he told it fiercely, I'm doing this, and I'm not going to hurt him again.
Braced on one hand, Angel slid the other over Doyle's chest, slippery wet with sweat and then lower, exploring without a hint of yesterday's hesitancy. Between his legs, crisp hair and the heaviness of his balls in Angel's palm and he felt more than heard Doyle gasp, one hand flailing at Angel's arm to stop him.
Deliberately, Angel pushed hard into him, forcing Doyle to brace himself with both arms to keep from smashing his face into the back of the sofa. "I told you, no sacrificial lambs," he whispered into Doyle's ear before sliding his tongue over it, wet and nasty and got a harsh cry in response.
He couldn't stop now, hunching his hips in quick, stilted thrusts. The angle was bad and he could see little drops of sweat clinging to the ends of Doyle's dark hair, splattering down onto skin as each push rocked into him.
One of Doyle's hands was over his on the sofa, short nails digging in until there was a fresh scent spilling into the air, blood, and Angel couldn't stop the demon from showing itself on his face but he could keep it from hurting Doyle, even as he was losing it beneath him, throwing his head back against Angel's shoulder as he cried out and came. That same painful heat pouring over Angel's hand, the smell of it fresh and heavy in his sinuses, and his senses overloaded as he wondering what it might taste like, if it was the same sea flavor as the scent. Orgasm was almost too pale a word for it, coming for what felt like a small eternity and, God it was good, too good, wicked and wonderful.
For a long moment Angel forgot he didn't have to breathe, the feel of Doyle's heart hammering against his hand like a memory of being human. He pressed his face between Doyle's shoulder blades and willed it into smoother lines before he pulled back, just a little. Not out, because his body was still pulsing with it, and he should pull away because this wasn't what either of them had really wanted but it had still been…
…so good.
"Are you all right?" Angel managed to whisper. His voice was a dry rasp and he swallowed hard, trying to work some moisture into his mouth. Doyle was completely still beneath him, his face buried in his arms, didn't even make a sound as Angel finally withdrew. Panic flashed through him, that despite his best efforts he'd hurt his friend anyway, and Angel touched him gingerly, softly, "Doyle?"
"Why did you do that?" Barely a whisper, muffled into Doyle's arms.
"I-" Angel hesitated, feeling that same nakedness he had the night before. "I did what you asked me to do."
"No." Doyle straightened, pulling away from Angel's touch. "No, I just wanted you to fuck me. I didn't mean I wanted you to make me-" He choked off the words and closed his eyes.
"Make you what?" It was slowly coming into focus and Angel could only stare at his friend disbelievingly. "Made you like it?" Doyle shuddered, wrapped his arms tightly around himself. "That's…what are you talking about? If you have to be here anyway, you may as well enjoy it, right?"
"No," Doyle whispered, eyes still closed. "It's not right at all." He moved slowly, stooping to pick up his clothes without looking once at Angel, walking around him as though he were a lamp or a chair, before walking silently into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him and Angel heard the lock click.
Angel stood in the middle of the shambles of his living room, his own clothes still scattered at his feet, the evidence drying on the back of the mostly ruined sofa. The water sprang on in the bathroom and he listened to Doyle showering, washing away the sex as quickly as he could.
Well, fuck.
~~*~~
End Part 2