Kink fic!
Title: Lukewarm, Frantic.
Rating: MA.
Characters: Cartwright/Angel
Summary: Challenge response. “Something non-consensual involving Nicholas and any of the other officers, Nicholas on the receiving end. Bonus points if you mention his martial arts training.” And there was a call for bathroom sex too, I believe.
Notes: Come on guys, where are the rest of the kink meme responses?
Andy inhaled sharply on his cigarette, huddled in on himself in an attempt to fight off the chill that came from leaning out the hotel window. The hotel staff wouldn’t let him smoke inside, but at least Angel posed no complaints about the window arrangement. In fact, Angel spent most of their time in Buford with his lips pressed tightly together, not saying much at all.
And that was it, really. Andy was constantly being pulled aside and sat down and having fingers waved in his face as lawyers said things like “Try to keep your mind on the objective, don’t get caught up in sentimentality”. Like he needed a fucking reminder on that point, like he hadn’t known most of those kids under the castle. Not that anyone ever pulled Angel aside, not that he needed to be told.
“I’ve done this before,” he’d said when Andy spat at him, said without making eye contact.
I bet you have, Andy thought. I bet you’ve pulled a thousand places apart like this. And he was never sure if he was angry at Angel, or angry at himself. Being angry at everyone else was a no-brainer. He was mad enough to see red at the whole fucking town. Sure, you come crying to the media and the courts and occasionally even us now, but it never occurred to you to stop it at the time.
Not that it occurred to anyone that sticking Andy and Angel together for the three days they were chained to Buford and the courthouse - and it couldn’t be Andy and Andrew, or even Andy and Tony, because Sandford was still too fucking thick to look after itself - might not be the best idea in the world. Being angry and young and not allowed to forget either of those things, and being cooped up with fucking supercop and seeing the veneer of perfection being ground down and down and down until something else shone through, until Andy had been kept awake last night by the sound of Angel breathing in his sleep…
Andy’s forearms burnt a little on the windowsill, bare skin cold and the frame of the window biting into the skin over his ulna, bone grinding a little against metal and concrete as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. The door to the room opened, and Andy heard Angel throw his jacket and key onto his bed, heard the bathroom door open and shut and the twin thuds on tile as Angel pulled his shoes off. If he strained his ears he could hear the soft noise of fabric being pulled over skin, the whispered fall of it to the floor. If he closed his eyes he could cut in the sound that chain around his neck must make as he reached into the shower cubicle, the very real and harsh creak of the taps as they turned cutting out the imagined soundtrack of stainless steel against skin.
Andy inspected the end of his cigarette, the orange embers and burning tobacco and white ash, before grabbing the filter once more between cracked lips and inhaling hard enough to feel his lungs complain, hard enough that he could hear the paper and tar light and die. He ground out the stub on the windowsill before flicking the crushed mess down to the street below, tracking its fall as idly as he could manage. He then took a very long, slow breath - not calming so much as collecting - before he pulled something cold and solid from Angel’s police belt and stepped across the room, wrenching the bathroom door open.
Angel didn’t even acknowledge Andy until a hand closed around his forearm, and he was slow enough to turn around that Andy had the first cuff closed tight around his wrist before Angel was pulling away and opening his mouth. Andy stepped close - his jeans and shirt getting splattered and an uneven kind of wet by the hot shower spray - and punched Angel in the stomach, making him curl in on himself slightly. It’s easy to have the upper hand when you’re wearing pants. It’s easy to be the one in control when no one else knows what the fuck is going on.
Angel would understand that.
Andy dragged Angel’s arms up and over his head, cuffing wrists together above the shower head. He hung there stupidly for a moment. Yes, thought Andy, it does take a while to catch up to you. Stupid and confused and you have no idea what you’re in for.
Angel made an angry sound when Andy kissed him, which was good. Andy didn’t really have the time or the patience to work through surprised and betrayed first. He stuck his tongue in Nicholas’ mouth, tasting shower water and resistance, washing away the taste of worthless smoke before being overridden by an explosion of pain and blood as Nicholas bit down with a tight kind of fury. Andy tore away, snarling and soaked, before planting his palm on Angel’s head, smashing wet blond hair into the dirty white tile behind. Angel made a cut off growl and hung a little limp. Stunned but watchful, and that wouldn’t do at all.
Andy punched him again, not that it was a good one, glancing off wet ribs and he nearly smashed his own hand on the white tiles. Angel’s lip curled a little. Because little Andy couldn’t even do that right. Andy pulled back his own lips, pulled back his torso and his arm and that sulky ineffective fist, and was so busy pulling back and coiling up that he almost missed the way Angel’s hands tightened on the shower head. A heel got him in the knee, and when he stumbled a foot got him in the stomach. Even naked and chained up, Angel could have the upper hand. Fucking bastard with his fucking training and martial arts, and he’d been fucking shot and kept going and going like a fucking battery commercial while all Andy had wanted to do was break down somewhere.
Andy launched himself at Angel, the sharp angle of his elbow hitting the other man’s stomach, the feel of Angel curling around him and the sound of air being forced out of lungs. The choking shudders as Angel fought to get his breath back, gasping and coughing in the shower spray. Not certain, or brave, and sure as hell not in control. Things Andy had wanted to see since the first day, things that had grown and twisted like wild blackberries until they hid amongst and strangled everything else, scratched at his insides when he moved.
When Nicholas looked at him, it was dark and angry with the kind of control that came from knowing that you were about to take a beating. It was the look that everyone wore in Sandford now, or on their way to court - on their way to get torn up by justice. But for once, that hateful look was aimed just at Andy, was just for him.
And it made him hard.
Andy pressed himself against Angel, wet hard clothes against naked slick skin against cold damp tile. Angel tried to angle away, slip out of grip, but then Andy’s hand shot out and grabbed his dick, and Angel was suddenly very still. It’s hard to be reckless when you’re the one who’s going to get hurt, isn’t it? It’s hard when you know before it begins. Andy began moving his hand over Angel’s cock, hard and rough and it probably hurt. He hoped it hurt. He was soaking wet from the hot shower spray, the noise of it in this ears drowning out any sound that wasn’t inched from his ears. Any sound that wasn’t made by Angel.
And Angel wasn’t looking away, but he wasn’t looking at Andy. His head dipped a little, and a deep furrow between his eyebrows. An open-eyed look on intense concentration, of dedicated discounting of reality, of Andy’s hand on his cock and the metal on his wrists. Broken only by the occasional frantic blinks to keep hot water out of his eyes. That’s right, Andy thought, smirking as he felt the rebellious hardening of flesh. You find your happy place, you bastard. He ground himself against Angel, working the cock in his hand so hard that he earned a strangled angry little noise of protest. As if protesting achieved anything.
It must be like drowning, Andy thought. You can fight it and feel the panic and drown anyway, or you can save time and just swallow the damn water. And Nicholas’ head was tilted back, pressed against the wall with his mouth hanging open and low, curling sounds quietly escaping. His eyes were still open, staring at the light fitting. Maybe he was pretending that it was someone else. Someone better. The thought made Andy flush and growl. You don’t enjoy this. You fucking stand there and take what I give you.
He pulled away and, with some force, spun Angel around, drawing a hiss as his front was pressed against the cool wall and wrists were twisted cruelly. Angel struggled again, because even a dead fish could figure out where this was going, but that just gave Andy back his hard grin. Why do you want to become a detective, they asked him. Because I like challenges, he replied. Because one day he wanted enough behind him to make people pay. He pressed his shoulder into Angel’s back, keeping him pinned and straining as his hands grabbed at his own belt buckle, wrenching wet leather through warm steel and feeling Angel’s body shudder at the sound, loud over the roaring waves of falling water.
He forced a knee between Angel’s thighs, used his whole body weight and the fact that he wasn’t handcuffed to a shower head to work those legs apart. He liked that Angel fought it. Liked that it wasn’t going to be easy. He grabbed a bottle of complimentary hair conditioner, and squeezed as much of it as he could onto his own erection, swiping two fingers along the length and then pressing them slickly against Angel’s opening, forcing them past the tight ring of muscle, biting Angel’s shoulder as Angel choked on a whining kind of noise. He grabbed the base of his own dick and lined it up, thrusting hard and rough, and oh jesus it even hurt him going in hard like that, but it hurt Angel more. And when this was all over and done with, Andy was going to have the softest pubic hair in the whole fucking city.
Andy pounded into Angel, like he would into a girl when she was drunk and dying for it. Like one animal fucks another. It was hard and he was sweating even under the fucking shower spray. Sweating because Angel was tight - which wasn’t that much of a surprise - because Angel was fighting it - and damn, Andy had hoped he would - and because of those little noises that were too hard at the edge to be whimpers and too angry to be groans but were still hitting the tile by Angel’s mouth and bouncing back around the room.
Andy pulled Angel’s hips away from the wall, having to step back before he could reach around and grab the soft cock that hung a hand’s length below Angel’s belly button, jacking it without care or tenderness, jacking it because he damn well wanted to get Angel off on this. Wanted him to have that same torn apart feeling that Andy had to wake up with every fucking day. And Angel was getting reluctantly hard, trying to twist away and that just made Andy fuck him harder, working his conditioner-slick hand like there wasn’t flesh underneath it, wasn’t something that could tear and break. Because the supercop was fucking indestructible.
And Nicholas was still making those hard small noises, gagging himself which was just so beautifully convenient. Breathing hard and diluting those sounds until even Andy had to struggle to hear them over the harsh sound of his own breathing and hard blood and that hard grip on Nicholas’ cock that was slowly getting softer because there’s only so much you can think about when your stomach starts coiling and there’s muscles moving around your dick. He pressed his nose against the wet planes of Nicholas’ back, inhaling heavily around the spray of water.
But then Nicholas was pulling away, and those noises were getting a bare measure louder and a few seconds longer, and it wasn’t until Andy felt the cock twitch in his hand register over his pounding of those shuddering muscles around his cock that he realised why. Angel made a long, low noise as semen - and it should have felt hot, it should have fucking burned but they were both red from the hot spray and the hotter blood and the raw anger - flowed thickly over Andy’s hand. He treasured that sound, because it was so fucking broken.
Andy dropped his hand and gripped Angel’s hips, bruising them as he pounded with malicious abandon, drawing out low, pained noises. Broken, oh how sweet it sounded. He felt the noise crawl into him, and the muscles in his back tighten, and he was pounding so hard that he didn’t know how Angel could just stand there and take it, could stand to be fucked into the tile. Could stand Andy biting into his shoulder and coming inside him and sagging against him and fucking loving it.
But then as Andy pulled out and stepped away, stumbling slightly with the tight heavy denim that was tangled wetly around his knees, Angel somehow got a foot braced against the wall and launched off it, barrelling the two of them to the middle of the room, somehow keeping his arms high enough to get the cuffs over the shower head. Andy barely had time to keep his balance before Angel swung his fists at Andy’s face, getting him on the jaw before lacing his fingers together and driving the solid grip into Andy’s stomach, like he was holding an axe and Andy was nothing more than a sulky sapling. Andy went down onto his knees and Angel kicked him in the stomach, sending him onto his side.
Angel grabbed a towel from the rack, and somehow managed to wrap it around his waist with his hands still held together. Through a winded, suddenly painful haze Andy could see where the handcuffs had rubbed his wrists raw, where his own inexperienced blows had rained down barely blossoming bruises. Andy made a hard choking noise as his stomach was kicked in again. Whimpering a little, too used to this feeling of being beaten down.
Angel coughed a little water out his lungs, and stared down at Andy where he lay curled and gasping on the floor. “Is there,” and he had to stop to clear his throat, to cough a little more, “anyone in Sandford who isn’t completely insane?” he asked.
Andy ducked his head a little, pressing it against the cold tile floor. Wet and with his pants down, the cold seeping into him like he was laying in damp dirt. “Don’t tell Andrew,” he said at last.
Nicholas snorted, and didn’t bother to close the bathroom door behind him.
Rating: MA.
Characters: Cartwright/Angel
Summary: Challenge response. “Something non-consensual involving Nicholas and any of the other officers, Nicholas on the receiving end. Bonus points if you mention his martial arts training.” And there was a call for bathroom sex too, I believe.
Notes: Come on guys, where are the rest of the kink meme responses?
Andy inhaled sharply on his cigarette, huddled in on himself in an attempt to fight off the chill that came from leaning out the hotel window. The hotel staff wouldn’t let him smoke inside, but at least Angel posed no complaints about the window arrangement. In fact, Angel spent most of their time in Buford with his lips pressed tightly together, not saying much at all.
And that was it, really. Andy was constantly being pulled aside and sat down and having fingers waved in his face as lawyers said things like “Try to keep your mind on the objective, don’t get caught up in sentimentality”. Like he needed a fucking reminder on that point, like he hadn’t known most of those kids under the castle. Not that anyone ever pulled Angel aside, not that he needed to be told.
“I’ve done this before,” he’d said when Andy spat at him, said without making eye contact.
I bet you have, Andy thought. I bet you’ve pulled a thousand places apart like this. And he was never sure if he was angry at Angel, or angry at himself. Being angry at everyone else was a no-brainer. He was mad enough to see red at the whole fucking town. Sure, you come crying to the media and the courts and occasionally even us now, but it never occurred to you to stop it at the time.
Not that it occurred to anyone that sticking Andy and Angel together for the three days they were chained to Buford and the courthouse - and it couldn’t be Andy and Andrew, or even Andy and Tony, because Sandford was still too fucking thick to look after itself - might not be the best idea in the world. Being angry and young and not allowed to forget either of those things, and being cooped up with fucking supercop and seeing the veneer of perfection being ground down and down and down until something else shone through, until Andy had been kept awake last night by the sound of Angel breathing in his sleep…
Andy’s forearms burnt a little on the windowsill, bare skin cold and the frame of the window biting into the skin over his ulna, bone grinding a little against metal and concrete as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. The door to the room opened, and Andy heard Angel throw his jacket and key onto his bed, heard the bathroom door open and shut and the twin thuds on tile as Angel pulled his shoes off. If he strained his ears he could hear the soft noise of fabric being pulled over skin, the whispered fall of it to the floor. If he closed his eyes he could cut in the sound that chain around his neck must make as he reached into the shower cubicle, the very real and harsh creak of the taps as they turned cutting out the imagined soundtrack of stainless steel against skin.
Andy inspected the end of his cigarette, the orange embers and burning tobacco and white ash, before grabbing the filter once more between cracked lips and inhaling hard enough to feel his lungs complain, hard enough that he could hear the paper and tar light and die. He ground out the stub on the windowsill before flicking the crushed mess down to the street below, tracking its fall as idly as he could manage. He then took a very long, slow breath - not calming so much as collecting - before he pulled something cold and solid from Angel’s police belt and stepped across the room, wrenching the bathroom door open.
Angel didn’t even acknowledge Andy until a hand closed around his forearm, and he was slow enough to turn around that Andy had the first cuff closed tight around his wrist before Angel was pulling away and opening his mouth. Andy stepped close - his jeans and shirt getting splattered and an uneven kind of wet by the hot shower spray - and punched Angel in the stomach, making him curl in on himself slightly. It’s easy to have the upper hand when you’re wearing pants. It’s easy to be the one in control when no one else knows what the fuck is going on.
Angel would understand that.
Andy dragged Angel’s arms up and over his head, cuffing wrists together above the shower head. He hung there stupidly for a moment. Yes, thought Andy, it does take a while to catch up to you. Stupid and confused and you have no idea what you’re in for.
Angel made an angry sound when Andy kissed him, which was good. Andy didn’t really have the time or the patience to work through surprised and betrayed first. He stuck his tongue in Nicholas’ mouth, tasting shower water and resistance, washing away the taste of worthless smoke before being overridden by an explosion of pain and blood as Nicholas bit down with a tight kind of fury. Andy tore away, snarling and soaked, before planting his palm on Angel’s head, smashing wet blond hair into the dirty white tile behind. Angel made a cut off growl and hung a little limp. Stunned but watchful, and that wouldn’t do at all.
Andy punched him again, not that it was a good one, glancing off wet ribs and he nearly smashed his own hand on the white tiles. Angel’s lip curled a little. Because little Andy couldn’t even do that right. Andy pulled back his own lips, pulled back his torso and his arm and that sulky ineffective fist, and was so busy pulling back and coiling up that he almost missed the way Angel’s hands tightened on the shower head. A heel got him in the knee, and when he stumbled a foot got him in the stomach. Even naked and chained up, Angel could have the upper hand. Fucking bastard with his fucking training and martial arts, and he’d been fucking shot and kept going and going like a fucking battery commercial while all Andy had wanted to do was break down somewhere.
Andy launched himself at Angel, the sharp angle of his elbow hitting the other man’s stomach, the feel of Angel curling around him and the sound of air being forced out of lungs. The choking shudders as Angel fought to get his breath back, gasping and coughing in the shower spray. Not certain, or brave, and sure as hell not in control. Things Andy had wanted to see since the first day, things that had grown and twisted like wild blackberries until they hid amongst and strangled everything else, scratched at his insides when he moved.
When Nicholas looked at him, it was dark and angry with the kind of control that came from knowing that you were about to take a beating. It was the look that everyone wore in Sandford now, or on their way to court - on their way to get torn up by justice. But for once, that hateful look was aimed just at Andy, was just for him.
And it made him hard.
Andy pressed himself against Angel, wet hard clothes against naked slick skin against cold damp tile. Angel tried to angle away, slip out of grip, but then Andy’s hand shot out and grabbed his dick, and Angel was suddenly very still. It’s hard to be reckless when you’re the one who’s going to get hurt, isn’t it? It’s hard when you know before it begins. Andy began moving his hand over Angel’s cock, hard and rough and it probably hurt. He hoped it hurt. He was soaking wet from the hot shower spray, the noise of it in this ears drowning out any sound that wasn’t inched from his ears. Any sound that wasn’t made by Angel.
And Angel wasn’t looking away, but he wasn’t looking at Andy. His head dipped a little, and a deep furrow between his eyebrows. An open-eyed look on intense concentration, of dedicated discounting of reality, of Andy’s hand on his cock and the metal on his wrists. Broken only by the occasional frantic blinks to keep hot water out of his eyes. That’s right, Andy thought, smirking as he felt the rebellious hardening of flesh. You find your happy place, you bastard. He ground himself against Angel, working the cock in his hand so hard that he earned a strangled angry little noise of protest. As if protesting achieved anything.
It must be like drowning, Andy thought. You can fight it and feel the panic and drown anyway, or you can save time and just swallow the damn water. And Nicholas’ head was tilted back, pressed against the wall with his mouth hanging open and low, curling sounds quietly escaping. His eyes were still open, staring at the light fitting. Maybe he was pretending that it was someone else. Someone better. The thought made Andy flush and growl. You don’t enjoy this. You fucking stand there and take what I give you.
He pulled away and, with some force, spun Angel around, drawing a hiss as his front was pressed against the cool wall and wrists were twisted cruelly. Angel struggled again, because even a dead fish could figure out where this was going, but that just gave Andy back his hard grin. Why do you want to become a detective, they asked him. Because I like challenges, he replied. Because one day he wanted enough behind him to make people pay. He pressed his shoulder into Angel’s back, keeping him pinned and straining as his hands grabbed at his own belt buckle, wrenching wet leather through warm steel and feeling Angel’s body shudder at the sound, loud over the roaring waves of falling water.
He forced a knee between Angel’s thighs, used his whole body weight and the fact that he wasn’t handcuffed to a shower head to work those legs apart. He liked that Angel fought it. Liked that it wasn’t going to be easy. He grabbed a bottle of complimentary hair conditioner, and squeezed as much of it as he could onto his own erection, swiping two fingers along the length and then pressing them slickly against Angel’s opening, forcing them past the tight ring of muscle, biting Angel’s shoulder as Angel choked on a whining kind of noise. He grabbed the base of his own dick and lined it up, thrusting hard and rough, and oh jesus it even hurt him going in hard like that, but it hurt Angel more. And when this was all over and done with, Andy was going to have the softest pubic hair in the whole fucking city.
Andy pounded into Angel, like he would into a girl when she was drunk and dying for it. Like one animal fucks another. It was hard and he was sweating even under the fucking shower spray. Sweating because Angel was tight - which wasn’t that much of a surprise - because Angel was fighting it - and damn, Andy had hoped he would - and because of those little noises that were too hard at the edge to be whimpers and too angry to be groans but were still hitting the tile by Angel’s mouth and bouncing back around the room.
Andy pulled Angel’s hips away from the wall, having to step back before he could reach around and grab the soft cock that hung a hand’s length below Angel’s belly button, jacking it without care or tenderness, jacking it because he damn well wanted to get Angel off on this. Wanted him to have that same torn apart feeling that Andy had to wake up with every fucking day. And Angel was getting reluctantly hard, trying to twist away and that just made Andy fuck him harder, working his conditioner-slick hand like there wasn’t flesh underneath it, wasn’t something that could tear and break. Because the supercop was fucking indestructible.
And Nicholas was still making those hard small noises, gagging himself which was just so beautifully convenient. Breathing hard and diluting those sounds until even Andy had to struggle to hear them over the harsh sound of his own breathing and hard blood and that hard grip on Nicholas’ cock that was slowly getting softer because there’s only so much you can think about when your stomach starts coiling and there’s muscles moving around your dick. He pressed his nose against the wet planes of Nicholas’ back, inhaling heavily around the spray of water.
But then Nicholas was pulling away, and those noises were getting a bare measure louder and a few seconds longer, and it wasn’t until Andy felt the cock twitch in his hand register over his pounding of those shuddering muscles around his cock that he realised why. Angel made a long, low noise as semen - and it should have felt hot, it should have fucking burned but they were both red from the hot spray and the hotter blood and the raw anger - flowed thickly over Andy’s hand. He treasured that sound, because it was so fucking broken.
Andy dropped his hand and gripped Angel’s hips, bruising them as he pounded with malicious abandon, drawing out low, pained noises. Broken, oh how sweet it sounded. He felt the noise crawl into him, and the muscles in his back tighten, and he was pounding so hard that he didn’t know how Angel could just stand there and take it, could stand to be fucked into the tile. Could stand Andy biting into his shoulder and coming inside him and sagging against him and fucking loving it.
But then as Andy pulled out and stepped away, stumbling slightly with the tight heavy denim that was tangled wetly around his knees, Angel somehow got a foot braced against the wall and launched off it, barrelling the two of them to the middle of the room, somehow keeping his arms high enough to get the cuffs over the shower head. Andy barely had time to keep his balance before Angel swung his fists at Andy’s face, getting him on the jaw before lacing his fingers together and driving the solid grip into Andy’s stomach, like he was holding an axe and Andy was nothing more than a sulky sapling. Andy went down onto his knees and Angel kicked him in the stomach, sending him onto his side.
Angel grabbed a towel from the rack, and somehow managed to wrap it around his waist with his hands still held together. Through a winded, suddenly painful haze Andy could see where the handcuffs had rubbed his wrists raw, where his own inexperienced blows had rained down barely blossoming bruises. Andy made a hard choking noise as his stomach was kicked in again. Whimpering a little, too used to this feeling of being beaten down.
Angel coughed a little water out his lungs, and stared down at Andy where he lay curled and gasping on the floor. “Is there,” and he had to stop to clear his throat, to cough a little more, “anyone in Sandford who isn’t completely insane?” he asked.
Andy ducked his head a little, pressing it against the cold tile floor. Wet and with his pants down, the cold seeping into him like he was laying in damp dirt. “Don’t tell Andrew,” he said at last.
Nicholas snorted, and didn’t bother to close the bathroom door behind him.