Connor Incest Ficathon Entry
For: ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
_fallen
Pairing: Connor/Spike, Spike/Angel implied
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM, borderline non-con, and of course incest.
Disclaimer: Mutant Enemy’s characters, not mine, and this is nothing they ever intended.
Vague spoilers through early ATS season 5.
My undying gratitude to knotted_rose and chickwithmonkey for the fastest betas in the West!
Spike reveled in the sheer number of sounds Connor couldn’t help making: the hitch in his breath, the flutter of the low and rapid pulse that rang out from gangly knees and elbows, the slight waver in his voice as he said, “I’m stronger than you!”
Touching a vampire was a matter of distilled silences. Even when they screamed, even Dru who burbled and babbled and peopled the furniture with voices. This boy child, whatever else he might be, was human enough. The more he struggled to control himself, the more he inevitably failed. Life dripped from him, as impossible to contain as sweet fresh sweat from skin as smooth as butter. Skin that goosepimpled when Spike drew his nails across it, and reddened with each open handed slap. He could practically hear the capillaries bursting like tiny Guy Fawkes rockets.
Spike grinned. He couldn’t see Connor’s face, not with the boy face down over his lap, but he had a fair notion of the expressions that were chasing each other across it. Transparent as water, this one was, with a petulant pout that begged to be bitten.
“This is all wrong,” Connor complained. “I won. I should be the one doing – this.” He gave a tiny gasp as Spike’s next slap came down on a spot that was already raw. “And anyway you’re not supposed to spank your uncle!”
William’s uncle had been a dour barrister with an immense bristling mustache. Privately, Spike had to admit the mind boggled at the thought of him bent over and seen to by anyone at all, let alone his poncy nephew. Out loud, of course, he admitted nothing whatsoever.
“Not supposed to dandle your uncle on your knee, either,” Spike pointed out. “But I could have. Just making up for lost time.” Connor flinched and Spike cursed inwardly. Too close to the bone, that. Four months since Spike had brought him his past in a Wolfram and Hart envelope. The boy was still a bundle of raw nerves.
“Never was one for following the rules,” Spike continued smoothly. “And you’re allowed when your uncle’s a sulky little wanker.”
“I wasn’t sulking!”
“What the bloody hell were you doin’ then?” Spike inquired reasonably. The smack of flesh on flesh punctuated his words at regular intervals, lulling the lad into a false sense of security.
Connor gave an impish grin over his shoulder. “Pissing you off.”
“And what did I say I was gonna do the next time you tried to diddle me like I’m as stupid as – you think?” Spike asked agreeably.
The boy repeated obediently. “Get out the cane and show me what a proper English punishment is like.” Spike waited patiently for the penny to drop. Wasn’t Connor’s fault he’d inherited Angel’s thick skull.
“Oh.” Connor’s eyes got big and his lower lip trembled.
Spike wasn’t fooled. The tang in the air, the hips that lifted into his hand instead of flinching away, said different. Not to mention the cock, hard as only a teenage boy’s could get, pressing into his thigh.
Spike shoved Connor off his lap. The boy’s reflexes would see him safe on his feet, even hobbled as he was by the worn jeans puddled about his ankles.
“Over the desk, then. Hop it.”
Connor started shuffling as slowly as he could get away with. “C’mon, Spike! Can’t you take a joke?”
Spike bit back the impulse to say he would be taking one, after. The boy was like a fucking crystal – hard as hell, and easy to shatter. He didn’t fancy picking up the pieces again.
He let the silence lengthen, instead. A sideways glance showed Connor draped over the desk like he had no bones at all, and Spike knew this was another bid to distract him, the languorous pose hinting at all sorts of lovely positions those long limbs could shape…
Another day, another mood, it might even have worked. Fuck knew Spike was never one for sticking to the plan. But he’d waited a long time for this. Eight sodding weeks while the post came on the slow boat from London. Plus another two for Connor to get bored and mischievous enough to push.
Spike took his sweet time walking to the closet and fetching what hung there, pristine and new. Let Connor wait. Let his nerves crawl with wonder and fear. Just ‘cause Spike didn’t believe revenge was a dish best served congealed and moldy didn’t mean he never fancied a bit of dramatic tension.
He swished the cane through the air next to Connor’s ear and grinned to see him jump. Good thing the lad couldn’t see him. Not good for discipline, that. Spike made his tone very firm.
“None of that, now. You’ll hold still for me.” He didn’t allow the end to drift up into a question. Yet another trick to curse and bless Angelus for. And the boy did hold still, even when the cane bit deep into the sweet spot at the top of his thighs.
Connor did yelp, though. Spike couldn’t fault him for that. He hadn’t asked for silence. He’d had a bellyful of it.
“Count the strokes, Connor,” he said, and softened the reproof with a tousle of the too-long hair that hid his face.
Crack went the cane, laying a second stripe next to the first.
“Two!” Connor squealed.
Spike knew exactly what Angelus would say in such a situation. “And you such an educated lad, too. A University boy. Is that what they taught you up at Oxford? To start counting with two? Because in my day, boyo, one was good enough for us.”
Spike ran a soothing hand over Connor’s arse and kept his mouth firmly shut.
It wouldn’t do to let the boy think he could get away with it entirely, though. Spike laid into him with a will, and blood welled up from the cut.
“Three?” Connor’s voice sounded shaken, and Spike wasn’t sure if he’d pushed the experiment far enough, for a first time. But when Spike bent to lick the blood, he groaned.
Spike damn near groaned along with him. “So good, little boy. Proud of you.”
“Get on with it. Or are you tired already?”
Connor never could handle praise. Spike shrugged and brought the cane down over bruises that were already fading. Sometimes the Superman bit was damned inconvenient.
Then again, it had its uses.
The cane splintered at stroke nineteen, and Spike tossed it aside. Connor had been whimpering “no,” and “stop” since twelve, but as long as he called out the numbers in a strong and steady voice, Spike decided not to worry. Besides, the hips grinding into the desk told their own story. And Connor was so very pretty when he begged for mercy he knew he wouldn’t get.
Spike was hard as a fucking teenager himself. He unbuttoned his fly, wet his hand with lube, and gave himself a desultory tug to ease the ache.
“Now reach back and hold yourself open for me.”
“I won’t.” The defiance in Connor’s voice rang clear as a bell, and Spike could have crowed with delight. Oh yeah. Angel may have made him, but this was his boy.
Spike caught Connor’s wrists and jerked them roughly back. “You will.”
Spike nearly chuckled to watch the puppy-large hands search gingerly for a spot that didn’t hurt to touch.
Spike pressed the slicked head of his cock against Connor’s entrance and heard the boy sigh softly. He’d already been trained to relax himself when Spike found him. Soul or no soul, Spike would kill to know where that came from, choice or coercion, the old memories or the new. He wasn’t ever going to ask.
Spike thrust and in one smooth stroke he was inside. Smooth for him, anyway. He knew Connor must be on fire.
Spike held still for a long moment. Not so much to give the lad a chance to adjust to the thickness inside him as to get a grip on himself lest this be over before it began. “Christ,” Spike whispered. “So tight.”
The boy’s arse gripped around him at that, and Spike was startled into a laugh. One point to the runt, then.
He wouldn’t get another. Spike gripped the sharp hipbones beneath him, drew back as far as he could bear, and rammed his cock home for all he was worth. Over and over until the world was only the length of his cock, only hot, squirming flesh and desperate breath and the sweet scent of blood.
Slowly Spike realized that Connor’s whimpers of pain were becoming words. “I hate you IhateyouIhateyou,” timed to each thrust, even as his hands spread his cheeks wider to welcome Spike in deeper. The boy had the worst case of mixed messages Spike had ever seen, bar one.
Spike stopped moving abruptly, and gripped the back of Connor’s neck. “Alright,” he agreed casually.
He felt Connor stiffen underneath him and go quiet. He felt like ten kinds of prick for dragging out the boy’s misery, but he had to be sure he was paying attention.
“Hate me all you want. You’re still stuck with me, so get used to it.”
“Leave me alone!”
“Not gonna happen.”
“You’re hurting me.” Connor was practically whimpering now, his voice gone high and young.
A fey smile crossed Spike’s face. He hadn’t heard those words in far too long.
“Yeah, love,” he murmured, and twisted his hips to force his cock that last fraction of an inch deeper. “Feels so good to hurt you. Gonna split you open, I am. Make you cry. You gonna cry for me, boy?”
“N-no,” said Connor defiantly, but they both heard the sob behind the word and knew he was a liar.
Spike slipped one hand around Connor’s body to take the boy’s cock in a grip just too tight to be comfortable, just this side of pain. “You want to come?”
“What the hell do you think?”
Spike squeezed.
“Ow!” Fuck, he was cute when he went all indignant and surprised. If Spike weren’t a big bad vampire, he might even get fond of the lad.
Spike chuckled again. “Yeah, ow. Try that again with a little less lip.”
“What the hell do you think?” Connor said, this time in a tone that walked the line between cowed respect and wicked sarcasm. Spike approved.
“I think you’re gonna earn it.”
Spike pinned Connor tight against him and ground his hips into the boy’s bruises. He distinctly heard a sniff.
Spike was so charmed he did it again. Yes, definitely. He pulled out, making Connor shudder and moan with relief, or disappointment. Spike would be surprised if the boy himself knew which.
“Turn over.”
Connor risked a quick look over his shoulder at that. “Are you nuts? I won’t be able to sit down till tomorrow.”
Spike summarily flipped him. “Exactly.”
Connor yelped when his weight landed square on his abused bum. Spike looked into those burning, resentful eyes, at the water that quivered in them but didn’t quite fall. “I’m gonna be so deep in you, you can’t ever get me out. You’re gonna remember what it feels like to be punished with every thrust. I’m gonna watch you cry while I come. Understand?”
“Hate you,” whispered Connor, which was answer enough. His ankles were kicked free of the jeans and up on Spike’s shoulders, though Spike didn’t remember putting them there.
Spike slicked a fresh lot of lube directly onto Connor’s skin. Angelus wouldn’t have bothered. He was not Angelus.
One of them had to remember that.
Spike slammed into Connor until the desk shook, letting the force of it push the boy’s unwilling cock through his fingers. Tracks of tears shone against Connor’s flushed cheeks, and he was biting his own lower lip the way Spike’s fangs itched to do.
Spike recognized the signs. His punishing rhythm never let up, but one hand stroked circles on the boy’s shoulder, incongruously gentle. “S’all right, boy. Say it. Let go.”
Connor’s eyes met his. “Hate you, Daddy.”
Spike came hard.
When the world was there again, his softening cock was still balls-deep in a boy who was leaking everywhere – blood, tears, pre-come, everything salty and sweet. It was too much, like being back in the womb. Spike reeled with it.
The boy’s cock was still pulsing in his hand, in spite of everything, still trying gamely to pump within the tiny range of motion Connor had left. It was touching, in a way. Or else Spike’s soul had turned him into a total nance.
“Yeah, baby,” Spike said softly. “Daddy’s here.” He only had to stroke twice before Connor’s come spilled out over the backs of his fingers.
After, Connor sniffed again and dragged the back of his hand across his face, smearing the tears away. Spike lifted him gently and carried him to bed, pulled the covers up over him and turned away.
Something caught at his hand.
“You don’t have to go,” said Connor, which was as close as he ever came to saying “Stay.”
Spike curled up behind him so Connor wouldn’t have to meet his eyes, but Connor turned in his arms and traced Spike’s bicep with a single finger. “How did you know?” he asked. His eyes were as open and guileless as a child’s. How the hell did he do that? Spike would have been less startled if they’d changed color.
“Know what, brat?” Spike asked, although he knew perfectly well. Had to leave the boy some dignity.
Connor looked down at their entwined feet and mumbled something that sounded like “hat to say.”
Spike swallowed. It wasn’t much of a trick, not when he’d been in Connor’s shoes long before he ever got into his pants. But he couldn’t say that without breaking the one rule the two of them shared: never talk about Angel.
“Yeah, well,” he said meaninglessly instead, and when Connor’s eyes flickered to his for a moment he knew he’d been understood.
“I don’t really hate you,” Connor said after a long moment.
“Aren’t I the lucky one,” said Spike dryly. But he kissed the boy’s forehead before he fell asleep.
