|dakinigrl (dakinigrl) wrote,|
@ 2007-09-01 20:25:00
|Current music:||Fod's happy voice|
Bring Back The Porn - Connor Fic
Title: Five Inappropriate Things That Never Happened to Connor
Fandoms: Angel the Series, Harry Potter/Daniel Radcliffe, Supernatural
Timelines: (1) post-“Not Fade Away” with flashbacks; (2) post-S3 Angel/Los Angeles, CA 2004; (3) post-“Not Fade Away”/Season 2 Supernatural; (4) post-“Not Fade Away”; (5) pre-“Offspring” S3
Pairings: Connor/ Ma & Pa Reilly • Connor/Daniel Radcliffe • Connor/Sam/Dean • Connor/dragon • Connor/Darla
Disclaimer: All characters created by Joss Whedon, JK Rowling and Eric Kripke. I don’t own anything. I’m fairly certain they would all be horrified should they ever come across this. Perhaps I will go to jail, or be banned from LiveJournal.
Summary: Connor experiences five different inappropriate scenarios that definitely never happened in canon, yet somehow seem not impossible considering how completely inappropriate his life was anyway.
Word Count: 3000 and some change
Posted: InsaneJournal – September 1, 2007 – Bring Back the Porn Week
Warnings: so much that will bother so many kinds of people. Incest, underage sexuality, real person pr0n, bestiality, cross-genre transgressions, teh hawt gay sex, making baby Connor cry.
Five Inappropriate Things
Connor is five. Maybe. The apocalypse came and went and he can never be sure just what memories are real, which were manufactured by Wolfram & Hart, which have been altered and stirred (not shaken) when the universe cracked open and time leaked out all over. He’s decided it doesn’t matter. Especially now, when it’s dark, he’s alone, and his cock leaps inside his hand as the tries to smear things enough to the left or to the right inside his brain so he can just get off, and fall asleep finally. He’s playing a scene, one of his favorites, it almost never fails to get him there. The incredible “wrongness” of it doesn’t matter. It may even be the point. He prefers not to analyze it too much. He just likes to play it back. Details.
How he got up in the night, padded down the hall in his striped pajamas, silent as a cat (he could always move that way in the dark). How the sounds in the kitchen drew him, made him hide in the shadows and watch. How everything made sense around him. His father (not his). His mother (this one) – belly down against the kitchen table – skirt hitched high over her hips – just the round of her ass in the air turned toward him, dark tangle of cave where his father reached, and held her down, and she moaned like an animal (like a demon) like a wild thing.
His father’s cock (not Angel). His father’s cock (not Holtz). His father’s eyes looking back at him (were they?) smiling (teeth in the dark in Quor-Toth, no Daddy, no) gleaming, as he smiled and hurt her (just enough) and entered her, and made her beg.
How Connor’s pert little child mouth knew the hardness (the sweetness) of it already. How her arm twisting into the small of her back, her dark hair gathered up in his father’s hands, arching. Slick purple prick disappearing there. The table legs jerking against the floor. Animal noises in the dark (now Daddy, now?). His hand down inside his pajamas. His fingers in his mouth. Taut child nipples pressing against his clean white shirt (Mommy folds them neatly in your drawer).
How he stood in the shadows, and felt like he was home.
Connor hates Harry Potter.
Skinny-chested, pale-skinned weakling who relies on magic to fight the forces of evil. That kid doesn’t even know what evil is. Thinks he has it bad because he lost his parents young, was marked by dark forces, those closest to him seem to die. Connor wants to retch. Oh please. Give me that kid’s life for one day. It’d be a vacation. He passes lines around the bookstores of people desperate to get the new edition. Idiots in glasses and robes mob the theatres. It makes him sick.
Connor hates magic. Muscle and meat and sinew and bone are his weapons. And a nice, sharp sword. The monsters in Harry Potter’s world are cartoon marshmallows. What’s all the fuss? Fuck the crowds. Fuck the freaks with their skinny little pretend wands.
Fuck Harry Potter.
Connor slides silently around the alleys of Los Angeles – City of Angels – Angel’s town. The monsters are out tonight and he dusts a few for practice. He’d like to take that Harry kid out and show him a real fight. Get him dirty. He takes a pull from a flask of something strong and feels a little better. If Harry were here right now he’d show him. Connor has been drinking since sundown. It seems like a good idea.
Daniel Radcliffe likes his hotel. From the window he can see all the lights of Hollywood spread out below him. So different than London. Here it’s all new and sharp and fast, like a shiny car. He wears blue jeans and t-shirts like Brad Pitt. He wants to reach out and touch the city. Gather it up like his model train set at home to carry away: This Is Mine.
He’s been cooped up all day giving interviews to American media. All he wants to do is get out and be let alone for a while. Not have every last moment scheduled to a tit. Find the underground music shops and crusty little bookstores where no one has ever heard of Harry Potter. Fat chance. They keep him corralled like a thoroughbred stallion. He knows he shouldn’t complain but he’s about to go mad, he’s certain. He knows he’ll be shuffled off to bed before long. He’ll only toss and turn there for hours. Oh for the Cloak of Invisibility now.
Time drips down the window panes and his breath fogs the glass. He can hear the soft ping of the lift down the hall. Quick, before he’s trapped for the night. Out the silent opening of he outer door and slipping down the well-appointed halls. An artful dodge into a foyer. A sly nick down the stairwell. His heart races with adventure. No one will know. He’ll be back inside an hour.
Connor stakes out the downtown Biltmore. He knows it’s insane, but rumor has it that infernal kid who plays Potter is staying there. It’s the closest he’ll ever come to staring that stupid boy in the face. He’ll dress as a waiter and take up a cart. Room service, boy. Where would you like it, boy? Here, let me show you real danger, boy. Say my name. Say my name.
Connor charms a Latino bellhop for a cigarette and rolls him for his threads. He leans against the courtyard wall and finishes his smoke, half in shadow. Hotel guests filter in and out the doors. No smoking in the bar. It’s not long before the gods smile on him again. He figures, like most things in his life, it was meant to be.
Daniel finds the lobby of the Biltmore crammed with guests. Some Middle Eastern wedding party in colorful garb. They are mostly drunk, but he doesn’t take any chances. Harry Potter causes a stir wherever he goes. He quickly flips his hoodie up to shield his face and ducks down the hall. The outer doors aren’t far away, just along the plush corridor, past the “Gold Room” where velvet and chandeliers drape the Baroque interior. Might as well be London. He skirts the crowd and slips out the double doors, looking to make for the street. Almost no one is in the courtyard, a few shadowed smokers, a couple entwined on the bench. Damn. It’s a dead end. He’s come out the wrong side of the building and he’s trapped in an outdoor foyer. He kicks the wall and swears. Just his bloody luck.
Suddenly, a hand has his wrist and is spinning him around, pulling him to the shadows. He’s off balance and his back is against the bricks. A pair of penetrating blue eyes confront his. Oh god, now what? I’m being mugged. A hand clamps over his mouth. He’s being pressed to the wall, immobile. The boy (is it a boy? God, he’s strong) has the length of his body up against Daniel’s. He can’t even struggle. I’m dead, he thinks. Oh god, my parents. What was I thinking?
Daniel can’t breathe, quite, but he isn’t drowning. Not drowning in blue eyes hard as marbles and deep as the Pacific. He thinks he hears the ocean, but maybe it’s just his heart beating hard inside his chest. A slim brown arm pins him across his larynx. Any minute now this boy will kill him. He never got to see Coldplay live. Suddenly, the mugger speaks.
“Do you believe in magic, boy?” Daniel blinks. What was the right answer?
Connor laughs softly. This was too easy. This boy was soft and innocent. Connor feels like a timber wolf with a spring fawn. He doesn’t want to kill this boy. Such innocence doesn’t really exist, does it? Instead, he kisses him. Full on the mouth.
Daniel was shaking now. What the hell? Connor tastes like whiskey and cigarettes. Like salt. Like old cemeteries and fog. Like fire. He felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. Danger. Excitement. This wasn’t quite what he had in mind but it definitely wasn’t boring. Then a hand was on his jeans and he was hard. Oh god.
Connor didn’t know what he wanted with this boy. Just that he wanted to crawl inside him. Too many people here. He had to take him. Somewhere. Else. Somewhere dark. He pulled an ‘Angel’ and they were up the wall, along a roof top. The boy was shaking. He was in shock but it wouldn’t last forever. Parking garage, empty van, something soft beneath them. Restraints.
This boy was easy. Easy to undress roughly; easy to bite in little patterns where his porcelain skin prickled. Easy to taste the fear mixed with desire at the back of his throat. Easy to cup his cock in a fast hand and pull while Daniel made smooth noises, and then sharper ones as Connor entered him. Oh this boy was easy. Easy to fuck, bent over, arms bound behind. Easy to make him speak in tongues. Easy to make him come, and then beg for more.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Are you magic, boy?”
“No, sir. You are.”
“The youthful boy below who turned your way and saw
Something he was not looking for: both a beginning and an end”
- Brothers on a Hotel Bed, Death Cab For Cutie
Connor’s body left the earth as he came off his Ducati Testrastetta at 90mph. Unlike Yeager in the Mojave desert there was no chute to break his fall. Just the black flash of the ’67 Impala that sideswiped him out of nowhere, blue sky, green grass. Tree. By all rights he should have been dead. But that’s what you get when you are made of prophecy, magic and the blood of the undead. Resiliency.
By all rights they should have called an ambulance, but there was hardly any blood at all. The welt on Dean’s forehead was worse that this kid’s whole body. Sam made Connor at least sit down. Dean kept his hand on the Colt tucked inside the belt of his jeans. He smelt a demon... or something. He waited for the turn.
Of course, that was hours ago, and several beers. They were well inside yet another unlikely tale from one of their complicated lives when Sam suggested a room. Night was coming on. None of them felt like getting to where they had each been going. And there was the matter of repairs. The Ducati was totaled. The Impala… well, the Impala had a dent.
So there was pizza, more beer, and bad TV - stories of hunting demons. Shades of things unsaid rattled their scales but they were all feeling too good to delve into deeper coffins. Connor fell asleep sprawled on the King-sized bed while Sam and Dean bickered over music and guns. Soon they stood over him, drunk and leaning on each other. Connor’s hands twitched as he slept. Color glowed like peaches in his cheeks.
“I’ll be damned if he gets the bed alone.” Dean shoved Connor’s feet a smidge over and curled up behind him. Connor moved a little in his sleep then breathed even again. Sam hit the lights and took the other side. He lay facing Connor, looking at Dean across the boy’s narrow shoulders.
It’s all as easy as breathing. Sam reaches out and strokes Connor’s long arm. Dean’s hefty one lays alongside it and the hairs rise up as Sam’s fingertips graze his. Dean’s eyes go smoky. He slips an arm around Connor’s chest and pulls him closer. He nuzzles Connor’s neck and thrusts his hips against tight denim. This is Sam’s favorite part. Almost.
Connor’s cock bulges inside his jeans and he moans a little in his sleep. Sam’s hands are at his button fly and his mouth is down around Connor’s prick before Connor is even awake. Dean is dripping apricot oil in his hand and slipping it up between Connor’s ass cheeks. The jeans are off and Dean is hard, purple, enormous. He pulls at his own cock as he watches his brother’s mouth wrap around Connor’s. That sweet mouth. He knows that mouth. This boy likes it too, oh yes.
Connor’s mouth is open and he is breathing hard. Awake now, eyes closed, maybe thinking he is dreaming. The neon lights of the cheap truck stop motel sign flash outside through the gap in the seedy polyester drapes. Sam’s and Connor’s bodies are lit up red, then blue, then goldenrod. Golden rod. Golden staff. Let it comfort thee. Take it, take it.
Dean enters Connor from behind, grabbing Sam’s hair and thrusting into them both. Now guttural sounds, now yelping and shouts. This boy was made to fuck. Like the brother they never knew. Sam pulls his own cock and takes Connor deep inside his throat. He grabs Dean’s ass with one hand as Dean fucks him through this kid, this demon spawn. He loves to watch his brother grunt and thrust. He can feel the heat rising in him. Connor is barking and half mad with pleasure. This boy was made to break open. Dean reaches for Sam’s cock himself and they all move as one wave, breaking.
The walls rattle, outside trucks hum by. Three bodies coming off the concrete. Breaking.
“Canst thou draw out Leviathan with an hook? or bore his jaw through with a thorn? Will he make many supplications unto thee? will he speak soft words unto thee? Will he make a covenant with thee? Lay thine hand upon him, remember the battle, do no more.” Job 40:24
“Our heart is not turned back, neither have our steps declined from thy way; Though thou hast sore broken us in the place of dragons, and covered us with the shadow of death.” Psalms 44:18
Connor had a promise to keep. The world was nothing now but the hulking ruins of cities and chaos lapping at the shores of time. But the weight of Angel’s sword in his hand was real enough. It reminded him of what was. Even if there was no one else left to rally or fight back to back with. He was the son of a champion. He would stand at the last edge of the world and hold whatever ground remained, even as it crumbled under his feet. He would bring metal to demon flesh. He would settle the score.
His clothes were still grey with Angel’s ash. Poof. Both parents now dust. Born of ashes and rain. Poof. Born a man the same way. Slice of a dragon’s tail – Angel’s head lifted neatly from his body – poof. Connor fell in a cloud of ash. Darkness.
Illyria had carried him he guessed. He awoke alone, her cobalt corpse turned to stone beside him. Nothing but husks and death and ashes. But Angel’s sword was there. And he had made a promise.
Mountains of saints. The world was crumbling into chaos but the San Gabriel Mountains were still hard to climb. In Quar-Toth there had been chasms into fire. These were like needles into thin, cold air: the breath of Archangel Gabriel. It rained ice on him the first night. He welcomed the frozen sting to his skin – otherwise he could feel nothing at all. The blood from his cuts mixed with tears, unnoticed. Salt like the oceans. All things return to the sea.
Islip Saddle to Azusa, along the Angel’s Crest to Little Jimmy, the beast waited in darkness at ten thousand feet and curled into the maw of the earth torn open in the Devil’s Backbone Ridge. In the legend of Azi Dahaka, Oreataona son of Abbiya was endowed with the divine radiance of kings and slew the dragon Dahag at the age of nine by giving him three wounds with a sword. Zoroastrians also prophesy that at the end of the world, Dahag will at last burst his bonds and ravage the world. Connor was a character in his own goddamn fable. He didn’t want to believe in fairytales anymore. Where was the moral in this particular myth? He figured that like everything else it would be born of fire and hard won, if at all.
He didn’t expect the eyes. In his mind it was all claw and leather, brimstone. But this beast regarded him. Connor smoldered in a patch of rocks and scrub at the entrance to the cavern, heft of steel in his right hand.
“Have you come to meet me, childe?”
The voice seared directly into his brain like the magicked memories of Wolfram and Hart. He didn’t want to talk. He had come to fight.
The dragon laughed. “Are you a real boy, Fredon?”
The bite of steel reminds the dragon that he is mortal after all. But he didn’t want to end this one now. His belly was full of the world and he wanted to play.
A dragon’s tongue s forked in two. His spit is made of fire. Connor screamed a while. His cuts bled him crimson but seared closed where the dragon tasted him. Sheets of pain became like mother’s hands after a time. His mind riven open like the world. In time he arched to where the dragon entered. Purred like sunset against steel claws. It wasn’t unfamiliar, this breaking, this falling. On the other side would be redemption. Resurrection. This boy is made of fire, of ash and rain, of concrete. This boy is made of prophecy. And a dragon has to sleep sometime.
Darla swam in a ruby world of shadows and light. Eyes of the jaguar peered back at her. The sun god smiled and seared her flesh. She fought to rise to the surface but a serpent tined about her feet and a hummingbird bore down on her head. The death bird sat on her shoulders. From her womb came a thrumming. The jungle buzzed in her ears “pachamama, pachamama”. She would drown. No one would find her. The jungle would eat her flesh. Like the Whore of Babylon she was, she would rot from the inside out. Syphilitic whore. Dung of Creation. Where are your people now? The talons of a great bird tore her eyes. See inside. Sea inside. Wash the unclean thing. Death becomes you.
She woke to a mud hut somewhere in Ecuador. The aftertaste of the brew they gave to her to abort the fetus still in her mouth. She has a feeling it didn’t work.
The old woman, bit of mud, comes in and gives her water.
“I want blood, bitch.”
The old woman cracks a smile of stains and gaps. She speaks in a tongue Darla can’t decipher. She has half a mind to eat her but she still can’t move.
Later they slaughter a llama for her. “Pachamama, Pachamama,” they murmur. She drinks the musty blood, thick and slippery. It tastes like Fall in Virginia. Like rotting potatoes. Like life.
When night falls Darla moves on through the jungle to the town. There are whores in the streets, she can smell their petty desperation. She finds a tart, plump, dark little tramp and lures her into bed. Darla wants to turn her for company but the cloying fetal soul that inhabits her twists her innards. It crawls into her mind and calls her ‘dear’. She wants to twiddle a sharp object to get it out.
She finds an angry drunk and goads him into beating her. She laughs with the eighth blow and purrs into game face. The man bolts. Where is Angel when she needs him? She hides in a basement with the damn and gives over again to dreaming. Worthless Incan shamans. What have they done to her mind?
* * *
His name isn’t yet. Tiny fingers and toes float before his almost eyes and he is ruby glow and shadow and light and the shell that moves around him and the swish of mother ocean and the murmur of her words.
He is game face and soft nipples between his teeth and the V of a woman’s sex and a hard man’s hands and prick inside. He is sharp objects passed along pale skin and the welling of slick blood, and blood swirling down hungry throat. He is taut tongue tearing into ripe fig of a dark-skinned cunt and delicious moans and cries and the shudder of thighs around his slick cheeks.
He is tiny prick inside the womb and breasts filling with blood, not milk, and sacrifice in the dank jungle. He is jaguar and prophecy and Pachamama and ashes. He is bitter liquid that will never go down. He is time that comes calling.
He is on a train that can never turn back and the wings of the Condor swoop low across the tracks. The abyss yawns below them.
They are going home.