In The Name Of
Jun. 19th, 2008 10:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sevendeadlyfunPairing: Connor, mentions of past Connor/Cordelia
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sometimes he wondered how many lives one person could have before they were officially too crazy. This was his third. Maybe his fourth, but it was hard to keep track. Real memories mingled with false ones, and just keeping track of his name was work.
A/N: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
kink_bingo prompt-virginity/celibacy. Set in the comics canon, no real spoilers.
Sometimes he wondered how many lives one person could have before they were officially too crazy. This was his third. Maybe his fourth, but it was hard to keep track. Real memories mingled with false ones, and just keeping track of his name was work.
Connor Angel. Connor Reilly. Stephen Holtz. The Destroyer. Father.
That last one really shook him. Sometimes he could almost hear her voice, that lovely liquid caress, calling him by his many names. Telling him he was going to be a Daddy.
He could remember losing his virginity, and at the same time he hadn’t. Yet. He’d been waiting for Tracy to be ready, hoping they’d be ready together. Hoping she’d be ready soon because he was really, really ready. And then the trip to L.A., a little bit of broken glass and all of sudden he’s not ready anymore.
His phantasmal memories slid through his mind, twisting and turning into strange and exotic shapes. Night after night in his own bed, hands creeping under blankets to slide down his belly. Hands sliding down Cordelia’s flat stomach to creep through a thicket of damp curls.
He blinked. He tried to focus, to wind down and sleep. He’d been up for days, standing guard against the predators that roamed freely through the hellish streets of Santa Monica. But his mind slid back into the treacherous waters of memory.
He remembered her lips sliding delicately across his, and she’d grabbed him. He shivered, remembering the feel of hands clinging to his hips. He’d tried to move slowly, sinking into her welcoming heat. It had been perfect. It had been real. She’d promised him real and even now, through the haze of almost lies and not quite truths that made up his memories, he could still feel her body clinging to his.
He moaned softly, trying not to draw any attention to his sleeping mat. In a hell dimension, privacy was not a luxury: it was a death sentence. But with his cock stiffening at the memory of his first time, Connor thought that fighting off the hordes of Hell alone might be worth ten minutes of privacy.
He lived like a monk now. Worse, if his history teacher could be believed. Apparently monks were the rocks stars of the early Church. Connor lie silently on his mat, contemplating a life where the Pope got more play than he did. A life where he was a virgin who’d fathered an Anti-Christ. Shit, could he be any more Angelus’ son? Lying there with a hard-on thinking about a dead woman and the Catholic Church.
Fuck it, he thought mutinously, hand closing around his sturdy erection. No more celibacy for this spawn of the undead.
Now that he’d stopped fighting it, the images of that night, his one and only fuck, came fast and furious. The sweetness of her warm mouth wrapped around his cock; the soft moans as he explored slick, pink flesh; being so utterly connected to another person, buried deep inside their body and really, finally connecting.
Connor muffled his grunt of completion, biting his own lip as his cock pulsed once, twice. The thick white cum splattered over the tangle of curls at the base of his dick. He looked down at his softening cock, face blank and shiny with tears.
She hadn’t been his only fuck. Cordy had been his only love, the only woman for him, and now he wondered if that’s why he and Tracy had never made it past tentative kisses. Maybe he wasn’t meant to have more than that one night. Sighing, he rolled over and grabbed his spare shirt. A quick wipe down and he needed to catch at least a few hours of sleep. Hell didn’t shut down for one man’s identity crisis.
Maybe Cordy was his only. Maybe she wasn’t and he was being dramatic. If they found their way out of this hell dimension, maybe he’d be able to figure that out. Until then, he wasn’t going to deny himself the pleasure of his memories.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sometimes he wondered how many lives one person could have before they were officially too crazy. This was his third. Maybe his fourth, but it was hard to keep track. Real memories mingled with false ones, and just keeping track of his name was work.
A/N: Written for
kink_bingo prompt-virginity/celibacy. Set in the comics canon, no real spoilers.Sometimes he wondered how many lives one person could have before they were officially too crazy. This was his third. Maybe his fourth, but it was hard to keep track. Real memories mingled with false ones, and just keeping track of his name was work.
Connor Angel. Connor Reilly. Stephen Holtz. The Destroyer. Father.
That last one really shook him. Sometimes he could almost hear her voice, that lovely liquid caress, calling him by his many names. Telling him he was going to be a Daddy.
He could remember losing his virginity, and at the same time he hadn’t. Yet. He’d been waiting for Tracy to be ready, hoping they’d be ready together. Hoping she’d be ready soon because he was really, really ready. And then the trip to L.A., a little bit of broken glass and all of sudden he’s not ready anymore.
His phantasmal memories slid through his mind, twisting and turning into strange and exotic shapes. Night after night in his own bed, hands creeping under blankets to slide down his belly. Hands sliding down Cordelia’s flat stomach to creep through a thicket of damp curls.
He blinked. He tried to focus, to wind down and sleep. He’d been up for days, standing guard against the predators that roamed freely through the hellish streets of Santa Monica. But his mind slid back into the treacherous waters of memory.
He remembered her lips sliding delicately across his, and she’d grabbed him. He shivered, remembering the feel of hands clinging to his hips. He’d tried to move slowly, sinking into her welcoming heat. It had been perfect. It had been real. She’d promised him real and even now, through the haze of almost lies and not quite truths that made up his memories, he could still feel her body clinging to his.
He moaned softly, trying not to draw any attention to his sleeping mat. In a hell dimension, privacy was not a luxury: it was a death sentence. But with his cock stiffening at the memory of his first time, Connor thought that fighting off the hordes of Hell alone might be worth ten minutes of privacy.
He lived like a monk now. Worse, if his history teacher could be believed. Apparently monks were the rocks stars of the early Church. Connor lie silently on his mat, contemplating a life where the Pope got more play than he did. A life where he was a virgin who’d fathered an Anti-Christ. Shit, could he be any more Angelus’ son? Lying there with a hard-on thinking about a dead woman and the Catholic Church.
Fuck it, he thought mutinously, hand closing around his sturdy erection. No more celibacy for this spawn of the undead.
Now that he’d stopped fighting it, the images of that night, his one and only fuck, came fast and furious. The sweetness of her warm mouth wrapped around his cock; the soft moans as he explored slick, pink flesh; being so utterly connected to another person, buried deep inside their body and really, finally connecting.
Connor muffled his grunt of completion, biting his own lip as his cock pulsed once, twice. The thick white cum splattered over the tangle of curls at the base of his dick. He looked down at his softening cock, face blank and shiny with tears.
She hadn’t been his only fuck. Cordy had been his only love, the only woman for him, and now he wondered if that’s why he and Tracy had never made it past tentative kisses. Maybe he wasn’t meant to have more than that one night. Sighing, he rolled over and grabbed his spare shirt. A quick wipe down and he needed to catch at least a few hours of sleep. Hell didn’t shut down for one man’s identity crisis.
Maybe Cordy was his only. Maybe she wasn’t and he was being dramatic. If they found their way out of this hell dimension, maybe he’d be able to figure that out. Until then, he wasn’t going to deny himself the pleasure of his memories.
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no subject
on 2008-06-19 02:41 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2008-06-21 04:15 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-06-19 04:17 pm (UTC)This paragraph really sang: He lived like a monk now. Worse, if his history teacher could be believed. Apparently monks were the rocks stars of the early Church. Connor lie silently on his mat, contemplating a life where the Pope got more play than he did. A life where he was a virgin who’d fathered an Anti-Christ. Shit, could he be any more Angelus’ son? Lying there with a hard-on thinking about a dead woman and the Catholic Church. That last line is wonderful.
no subject
on 2008-06-21 04:16 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-06-19 08:01 pm (UTC)Especially the dark humor like this:
Shit, could he be any more Angelus’ son? Lying there with a hard-on thinking about a dead woman and the Catholic Church.
Hot and dark and troubled and very Connor.
*applauds*
no subject
on 2008-06-21 04:17 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-06-29 02:37 pm (UTC)I loved it! Especially the naughtiness *g*
Lying there with a hard-on thinking about a dead woman and the Catholic Church.
*snort* yeah he’s his son all right! ;)
no subject
on 2008-06-30 12:33 am (UTC)