december ficlets #1 and #2
These are more snippets than ficlets, but I'm trying to keep moving forward and not get bogged down. Just keep writing, writing, writing. Just keep writing, writing, writing. Just keep writing, writing, writing. Etc.
James doesn't actually watch that much TV. It seems too much like work and he can't stop deconstructing the lines, the delivery, the lighting. They have to spend a few minutes hunting down the remote from wherever the cleaning service put it last week. Vincent finds it in the pot with the ficus. Naturally.
He stops on PBS, because it's not like he can deconstruct an episode of Nova. Soothing documentary-type voices are discussing the finer points of decoding Nazi secrets.
Vincent's sitting in the armchair, legs crossed underneath himself, balancing a basket of fries on his knee. He keeps licking the salt off his fingers. James can't seem to wrap his brain around what all the talking heads are talking about. Impatiently, he flips the channels until it lands on ESPN Classics. Some football game.
He finds that he keeps watching Vincent. Vincent's eating his fries one by one, slowly and carefully.
James: You eat like a bird.
Vincent [eyes on the TV]: Birds eat twice their bodyweight every day.
His tone indicates that he's leaving the dumbass left unsaid at the end of the sentence.
James: Oh. Then why do people say that?
Vincent [shrug]: I don't know.
Despite what the game clock states, time passes. TV sounds and silence. Vincent occasionally sucks his fingers.
James means to say, For the love of god, go get a napkin, but somehow it comes out as -
James: Plenty of room on the sofa.
Still nibbling on an end of a fry, Vincent turns his head slowly to look at him. Unfolds himself and walks over. Sits down between James's thighs, back to James's chest. He scoots down until he's resting his head on James's shoulder.
Vincent: Am I blocking your view?
James [pause]: Nah. You're fine.
They've played this game several times.
The hotel was dark and empty when they got back. Angel didn't bother turning on the overhead lights. They were both splattered with demon blood, Angel's coat spotted and ruined, Connor's skin stinging everywhere the green ooze met open cuts.
"You never listen to me," Connor said, clipping Angel's heels. They followed the curve of the stairs, then down the hallway towards Angel's room. The low, amber bulbs flickered as they passed. Angel's feet pounded the worn carpet, the sound echoing in Connor's ears along with the rat-tat-tat of his pulse.
"That's not true," Angel said. He tugged his coat off and tossed it in the direction of the closet. When he turned to face Connor, his face was still grey with anger.
"Yes, it is," Connor shot back. He began unbuttoning his shirt, his fingers pulling the threads loose, his voice rising. "You never even ask me what I think, you just go ahead and do whatever you want."
"I stopped you from walking into a trap that could have gotten you killed." Angel's eyes flickered downward. "What are you doing?"
Connor stopped with his hand at his fly, incredulous. "What's it look like I'm doing?"
Angel gaze turned dark, but he didn't move. "That's not going to happen."
"Why - because *you* say so?" Connor stood in the middle of the room, his shirt hanging open, his feet bare. His tone twisted into something bitter and ugly. "I want to fuck."
Angel crossed his arms and stared at him in silence.
"What's the matter?" Connor asked. He shrugged out of his shirt and let it drift to the floor. He shortened the distance between them, his gaze wandering, past the pink showing at Angel's throat, the curled fists at his side, the outline of Angel's hard cock under his trousers. "Am I getting a little old for you? The way I hear it, you like picking them out of the high school crowd. I bet Buffy was so pretty when she was a kid, round little face, round little thighs spreading - "
Angel hit him so hard, the room went darker. Connor rolled his head on his neck and palmed his jaw to make sure it was still in place.
Angel's back hammered the door with the sharp crack of old wood breaking, his shirt in Connor's fingers, their mouths in the same space, meeting. Connor's stomach flipped as Angel grabbed him by his neck and spun him around. The edges of the room shivered again when Connor's body smacked into the door.
"Jesus," Connor gasped. He'd bit his tongue. He turned his head to the side and spit red.
"It's a little late for prayers, sweetheart," Angel said, dragging Connor's jeans past his hips. "This is what you wanted. Well, Daddy's gonna give it to you."
"Wait," Connor said, pretending to twist away.
"No," Angel said.
The sex was always rougher this way. Connor smelled the fresh blood before he felt the pain, then the slight ease of friction as Angel's cock found a way to slide past resistence and flesh. He pressed his cheek against the door and moaned, liking it.
"You are really sick in the head, you know that?" Connor said, right before he elbowed Angel in the gut. He came back around, swinging. Punched Angel in the face until he faltered. He pushed Angel to the floor and climbed on top of him.
Connor was stained and sticky all the way down to his knees, Angel's cock smeared with the same dark color. He pinned Angel's shoulders to the carpet and rode him until Angel's eyes rolled back, his head following, his throat exposed. He gave up dirty, choking sounds.
"Touch me," Connor said.
Angel opened his eyes, his pupils swollen black. The left side of his face was starting to show bruises. He grabbed Connor by the hips and slammed their bodies together. When Connor tried to punch him again, Angel caught his fist with ease and twisted Connor's arm. He slid their joined hands over Connor's dick, knuckles dragging in a line from base to tip.
"Touch yourself," Angel said.
"Kiddie-fucker," Connor gritted, writhing.
Angel smiled, wide and mean. "Demon-fucker."
Forward, ho!
James doesn't actually watch that much TV. It seems too much like work and he can't stop deconstructing the lines, the delivery, the lighting. They have to spend a few minutes hunting down the remote from wherever the cleaning service put it last week. Vincent finds it in the pot with the ficus. Naturally.
He stops on PBS, because it's not like he can deconstruct an episode of Nova. Soothing documentary-type voices are discussing the finer points of decoding Nazi secrets.
Vincent's sitting in the armchair, legs crossed underneath himself, balancing a basket of fries on his knee. He keeps licking the salt off his fingers. James can't seem to wrap his brain around what all the talking heads are talking about. Impatiently, he flips the channels until it lands on ESPN Classics. Some football game.
He finds that he keeps watching Vincent. Vincent's eating his fries one by one, slowly and carefully.
James: You eat like a bird.
Vincent [eyes on the TV]: Birds eat twice their bodyweight every day.
His tone indicates that he's leaving the dumbass left unsaid at the end of the sentence.
James: Oh. Then why do people say that?
Vincent [shrug]: I don't know.
Despite what the game clock states, time passes. TV sounds and silence. Vincent occasionally sucks his fingers.
James means to say, For the love of god, go get a napkin, but somehow it comes out as -
James: Plenty of room on the sofa.
Still nibbling on an end of a fry, Vincent turns his head slowly to look at him. Unfolds himself and walks over. Sits down between James's thighs, back to James's chest. He scoots down until he's resting his head on James's shoulder.
Vincent: Am I blocking your view?
James [pause]: Nah. You're fine.
They've played this game several times.
The hotel was dark and empty when they got back. Angel didn't bother turning on the overhead lights. They were both splattered with demon blood, Angel's coat spotted and ruined, Connor's skin stinging everywhere the green ooze met open cuts.
"You never listen to me," Connor said, clipping Angel's heels. They followed the curve of the stairs, then down the hallway towards Angel's room. The low, amber bulbs flickered as they passed. Angel's feet pounded the worn carpet, the sound echoing in Connor's ears along with the rat-tat-tat of his pulse.
"That's not true," Angel said. He tugged his coat off and tossed it in the direction of the closet. When he turned to face Connor, his face was still grey with anger.
"Yes, it is," Connor shot back. He began unbuttoning his shirt, his fingers pulling the threads loose, his voice rising. "You never even ask me what I think, you just go ahead and do whatever you want."
"I stopped you from walking into a trap that could have gotten you killed." Angel's eyes flickered downward. "What are you doing?"
Connor stopped with his hand at his fly, incredulous. "What's it look like I'm doing?"
Angel gaze turned dark, but he didn't move. "That's not going to happen."
"Why - because *you* say so?" Connor stood in the middle of the room, his shirt hanging open, his feet bare. His tone twisted into something bitter and ugly. "I want to fuck."
Angel crossed his arms and stared at him in silence.
"What's the matter?" Connor asked. He shrugged out of his shirt and let it drift to the floor. He shortened the distance between them, his gaze wandering, past the pink showing at Angel's throat, the curled fists at his side, the outline of Angel's hard cock under his trousers. "Am I getting a little old for you? The way I hear it, you like picking them out of the high school crowd. I bet Buffy was so pretty when she was a kid, round little face, round little thighs spreading - "
Angel hit him so hard, the room went darker. Connor rolled his head on his neck and palmed his jaw to make sure it was still in place.
Angel's back hammered the door with the sharp crack of old wood breaking, his shirt in Connor's fingers, their mouths in the same space, meeting. Connor's stomach flipped as Angel grabbed him by his neck and spun him around. The edges of the room shivered again when Connor's body smacked into the door.
"Jesus," Connor gasped. He'd bit his tongue. He turned his head to the side and spit red.
"It's a little late for prayers, sweetheart," Angel said, dragging Connor's jeans past his hips. "This is what you wanted. Well, Daddy's gonna give it to you."
"Wait," Connor said, pretending to twist away.
"No," Angel said.
The sex was always rougher this way. Connor smelled the fresh blood before he felt the pain, then the slight ease of friction as Angel's cock found a way to slide past resistence and flesh. He pressed his cheek against the door and moaned, liking it.
"You are really sick in the head, you know that?" Connor said, right before he elbowed Angel in the gut. He came back around, swinging. Punched Angel in the face until he faltered. He pushed Angel to the floor and climbed on top of him.
Connor was stained and sticky all the way down to his knees, Angel's cock smeared with the same dark color. He pinned Angel's shoulders to the carpet and rode him until Angel's eyes rolled back, his head following, his throat exposed. He gave up dirty, choking sounds.
"Touch me," Connor said.
Angel opened his eyes, his pupils swollen black. The left side of his face was starting to show bruises. He grabbed Connor by the hips and slammed their bodies together. When Connor tried to punch him again, Angel caught his fist with ease and twisted Connor's arm. He slid their joined hands over Connor's dick, knuckles dragging in a line from base to tip.
"Touch yourself," Angel said.
"Kiddie-fucker," Connor gritted, writhing.
Angel smiled, wide and mean. "Demon-fucker."
Forward, ho!