Title: With a twist
Author: Criss Moody wyoluvr@yahoo.com
Pairing: Angel/Oz/Doyle
Spoilers: Up to and including S1 Angel "In the Dark." 
Notes: Kisses to Donna M. for the "guhs" and the beta.
This is dedicated to my one and only, my lovely Charles
Cook, listdaddy of AngelSlash and gods only know how many
other lists besides. He's sweet, and cuddly, and I love
him very much. He asked, and here it is.
Apologies: If there are huge errors, forgive me. I almost
lost this fic to the evils of my computer at work. Had to
delete tons of smartquotes. Bleh.
Improv #15: air, orange, chime, dark

***

He'd taste like whiskey and tears, sharp edge of
fermentation riding under the tangy salt of grief.

It's seven A.M. and it's time to leave. Time to go back to
college and girlfriends and the other good fight.

But it's hard to stop thinking about what he'd taste like.

~~

"Angel, man, doncha think that you've, uh, had enough?"
Glassy melted nothing for eyes and Doyle knows he shouldn't
have taken Angel up on the vampire's offer of 'a drink.'
Doyle's fallen into that trap before, it's just one drink,
get off my back, and then it's a bottle of whiskey later
and he's not sure how he managed to get from San Diego to
Santa Barbara, but he did and Harry was gonna kill him.
Angel though, Angel wasn't the just the one drink type.
Stalwart and true and was that a sword of guilt up his ass
or was Doyle just imagining things? Nah, so it's a wonder
that the hard mass of man flesh sitting silent and alert to
nothing but the tumbler of whiskey on the table is even
able to speak.

"Never enough. It's never enough," Angel's face rises to
meet Doyle's, "ya know, and that's just not fair. I, I
helped the sworn enemy of my kind, fuck, I fell in love
with her and fucked her and tried to kill her, but made up
for that, didn't I? Didn't I?" Brown eyes fall away, and
Angel's hands fumble up from under the table to grab the
tumbler, sloshing more amber liquid onto Angel's pants than
into his mouth once the tumbler makes it up that far.

Doyle fidgets. Tired old conversation, not that he'd had it
with Angel, but the guilt, love, and self-hate ache in
Angel's voice and it makes Doyle twitch. Every time, the
git has this guilt complex that just didn't quit, like that
pink bunny with those batteries. He rubs the waxy residue
on the table from an incantation earlier in the week. Looks
like Cordy hasn't cleaned up yet so it's a good thing that
the bossman is smashed.

Sprinkling of shards and Doyle ducks, seconds too late to
realize that Angel aimed the whiskey bottle vaguely in his
direction and let it fly. Words like 'that's it I'm cutting
you off' stay on Doyle's tongue when he sees that Angel's
unconscious.

Drag the dead (pardon the pun) weight into the bedroom.
Strip the almost too large body of whiskey doused clothes.
Can't have the boss waking up stewed in his own juices, eh?
Though from what Doyle knows of Angel's life as a human,
he'd been a hell of a stinker in his day. Carousing like
any good Irish boy 'till he met the wrong fair lassie in an
alleyway.

Might have been fun, Doyle thinks, playin' such games with
the human version. Doyle misses the slobbery, whiskery
kisses peppering his stomach red. He feels wistful for the
days when it was easy to pretend. That you're so drunk
you'd put it anywhere. That it's only because the pretty
blonde turned you down twice. That you wouldn't crawl,
begging for the man meat underneath a pair of tight denims.


Doyle's hand brushes the concave area between Angel's legs,
feels the fabric tenting, rising, and Angel moans. Jesus
and hellfire, he should leave. Mouth watering, Doyle
shakes, lowers his face and breathes deep, and lord but
that man does smell good. No. Not good. Needy. Cold.
Coppery. Now Doyle feels his own member stiffening, and
it's really truly time to get going.

The half-demon stumbles backwards into a solid, warm body
standing next to the bed. Steps back, looks to see that
it's Oz, that kid from Sunnydale, silent and waiting. Like
he's gonna pounce. Like Doyle is prey.

Or more.

~~

Oz feels the wolf crawling under his skin and wonders, not
for the first time, if being human is not all it's cracked
up to be. Humans can't smell what the wolf can smell. A
human wouldn't smell the almondy, acrid scent of arousal
pulsing in the air. Or care that Angel's partner, Doyle?,
has a racing heartbeat. Diverting most of the blood flow
into the groin, and Oz feels a responding tightness in his
own skin.

The wolf wants out to play. Not a good idea. It wants to
fuck the shit out of Angel because he's a vampire and
vampires can take it. Tuck away a need to lick the big
man's body free of sweat and other bodily fluids. Make a
safe place inside of Angel, guzzle and drown in borrowed
things, blood and semen.

If Oz told anyone half of what passed through his mind on
an average day, he'd end up in chains 24/7, the sad eyes of
his 'friends' peering through the bars of a cell. Willow
might fight for him. Maybe.

Oz sniffs the air hard, catches an undercurrent of chalky
musk, something peculiar to demons. The smell of caulk and
super adhesives, fresh, clean, but heavy in a way that's
pleasant enough to make your nose curl.

Whatever the dude is, it's not human. Not entirely anyway.
The guy's lips shift, move, and Oz startles when he
realizes that the guy's talking to him.

"Sorry, didn't catch that."

"Oh, no problem, really. Just sayin' that Angel here's
kinda out of it." Doyle, that was his name, scratched his
head. "So, you'll be goin' back to Sunnydale, then?"
Tinged with a hopeful desperation, Doyle's words spoke a
spare volume on what passed as communication for humans.

Despair. He'll never touch Angel the way he'd like to lay
him open and ride his tongue up his ass until the prissy
detective fucking cries it's just way. Too. Much.

Nose crinkles and Oz grins, and Doyle backs up.

There are worse things than taking advantage of the moment.


~~

Something about how deep the kid's tongue reaches into
Doyle's mouth must be wrong but it escapes Doyle entirely.
Surely the strong clean taste, peppermint and weed, is bad
for Doyle, very bad indeed, but it tastes so fucking sweet
that Doyle wants to cry and then he feels a tear actually
fall. The kid breaks from the kiss to cock an eyebrow at
Doyle, but the half-demon just gave up being good for Lent
several months too early and he dives back into Oz's mouth.
Voracious tongue, strong white teeth, and Doyle could
almost come from the divine taste. But he wants to know
what all of Oz tastes like. Smells like. Sounds he makes
when touched here. More. There. Harder. Fuck yes, right
there.

They fall in a mess of half-removed clothing and limbs next
to Angel, whose body bounces slightly, and the vampire
snores. Doyle groans as Oz rips his favorite brown shirt
off and pauses to make sure Angel really is just snoring.
Sculpted white chest in the half-light of the room, no
accusing eyes staring out from that disgustingly handsome
face. Good. He grabs Oz's head as the kid takes suckle,
worrying the nipple into sensitive hardness with his teeth
and his tongue, as his spare hand plays with the other
nipple. Oz switches sides, and toys the teats into
elongated prongs of unbearable pleasure, chewing at one or
the other as his free hand sweeps down to Doyle's pants.
Gods, yes, this is missed. Men who instinctually realize
that he needs this. Chew. Bite. Rend. Blood isn't bad, just
try to keep all his parts together, and Doyle's flesh is
yours. Make it so.

A warm palm cups the meat rising to escape Doyle's pants.

Ah, yes, right, there we go. Keep wiggling those long
fingers down his dick and you'll get a toy surprise. Light
squeeze, Doyle whimpers, bucks against the hand, and Oz
smiles. Bares his teeth in what could be called a snarl,
but there's a friendly, gently avaricious light in the
kid's eyes that relaxes Doyle. Kid just wants to fuck him
into the mattress.

What, may he ask, is wrong with that?

Nothin' that's what, so Doyle eagerly shucks his jeans,
kicking them down to the floor. They flip and Doyle's
straddling the wiry Oz, and he doesn't know where to start
first. Fuckin' smorgasbord, and he's paid up to eat all he
can. Puckered flower nipples, proud strong stalk penis, and
a limitless expanse of almost glowing white skin, on and
on, it melds to thickly laid muscle.

Gods, he's gonna come before he so much as lays another
hand on the boy with thoughts like that.

Rubs down Oz's body and delights in the growling groan
wrested from that stocky torso. Doyle runs his hands
lightly through the dark red bush of hair cushioning and
surrounding his partner's cock. Blush red at the tip, thick
and engorged, slimming back towards where it joins Oz's
body.

Now, that's a work of art. If Monet or Picasso'd been a bit
more adventurous, they'd have known where the really
limitless beauty was. Cock, pussy - they're our
beginnings, wet and messy and damned ignominious. Yeah.

He lays wet sucking kisses from sternum to belly button,
chuckling into the dimpled flesh as Oz grunts, sighs, and
clutches at Doyle's head. Just as Doyle goes for the
prize, so to speak, he finds himself down under about 140
pounds of aggressively aroused young male. Nyaghghghgh! Oz
swoops down on Doyle, swallowing the older man's erection
so fast Doyle feels dizzy.

Jesus, Joseph, Mary and the donkey too, Doyle's body's
gettin' sucked out his dick. This kid's got a mouth on him
like an industrial strength vacuum and Oz also knows what
he's doing. No novice here. Teeth are tucked carefully
away and tight 'o' of the mouth suctions on as Oz's tongue
dances along the underside of Doyle's cock.

Sparkles of pleasure shoot through Doyle's vision as he
rides the edge, plummeting over the cliff when slick
fingers work into his ass.

"Nah, nyagh, oh, fucking hell, gods, yes, please, oh,
please," and Doyle's way past babbling and it seems like
he's going to come for-fucking-ever when Oz introduces
three fingers to Doyle's ass. Shocking, and painful, and
damn good. Clench down tight and try to make something last
that was never meant to.

Doyle's still trying to breathe when Oz's face floats in
front of his own, silver white sparkles melt into the red
hair and fair skin.

Oz's mouth descends. ((Oh, he's going to kiss me. Fuck,
he'll kill me before the night is through.)) Light touch
of lips pushing breath into breath. But Doyle wants to
return the favor so he scoots down and prods Oz onto his
back. With a small pillow under those pretty pale hips, he
licks his lips and digs in. Laves the mushroom-shaped head
of Oz's erection with short flicks, savoring the salty,
acrid-orange taste. He'd been of the opinion since the
first time he had cock that semen tasted a lot like life
felt. Salty, almost unpleasant, but sweet if you wanted it
to be. An acquired taste. Tongues down the rosy red
wrinkles surrounding darker secrets and Oz's body trembles.


Doyle baths the tender smooth flesh between balls and tight
hole, nudging the low-hanging balls with his nose, sniffs
at the ripe smell of boy/man. Works one of those
peach-fuzz covered sacs into his mouth, suckles the skin,
moves the hardness within around. Switches to the other
ball sac, his hands rubbing up Oz's chest to rub the flat
nipples. Cinnamon musk bursts on Doyle's taste buds as he
nuzzles into the puffs of rust red hair cushioning the
boy's cock. He breaths deep of the scent - sweat,
patchouli, and other older scents. Like the fresh yeasty
smell of a woman in heat.

This one has a girlfriend, Doyle recalls dimly and almost
instantly forgets as he sucks the veined steel into his
mouth. Sucks. Hard. Oz bucks up into his face, driving
his cock deep enough to set off Doyle's gag reflex. Doyle
backs off a bit, but finds Oz's hands around his head,
controlling the fuck. And that's what it becomes, Oz
fucking his face, the boy's features contorted in a rictus
of feeling too damn good to keep breathing and Doyle's
pretty sure he won't be able to if Oz doesn't finish soon.
Smooth cockhead rubs once, twice against the ridged roof of
Doyle's mouth before Oz begins to shudder and Doyle digs
his fingers into Oz's freckled ass. Milks the spasming
flesh until Oz pushes at his head.

They fall away from each other, and Doyle startles to feel
cold flesh press up against his sweaty back. Just Angel, so
that's okay, and Doyle doesn't even bother to make sure
his boss is still out of it. Lassitude and a certain
smugness caress Doyle's ego. He may not be able to attract
dead men and ex-beauty queens, but he's doin' okay with the

werewolf contingent.

He feels Oz nuzzle his chest, pawing at him like a dog
trying to ready it's blankets for sleep. The younger man
settles, and spreads out next to Doyle in the residual heat

of the blankets. The half-demon considers grabbing the
twisted blankets under their bodies, but Oz feels good, and
he's exhausted, and their bodies are still so warm from
fucking that blankets would be too much on their hot,
sensitive skin. Doyle's mind drifts.

"Excuse me, but are you two having sex?"

Fuck.

Yes, that was a squeak coming from Doyle's lips, just like
that was most definitely Angel leaning up on his side, head
on hand, regarding the two sweaty, come covered men
sprawled on the vampire's bed.

Not good. At all. Though Angel's face did look confused,
and his eyes kept gliding shut like he wasn't totally
there.

"Uh, why do you ask?" Brilliant, bloody brilliant, Doyle,
could you be any more fucking moronic?

"'Cause you're naked. Mmmm..." Angel's bleary eyes brighten
a bit and consider Doyle's flaccid manhood, quiescent on
bed of tight black curls. "And I smell it. I dreamt it.
Thought it was a pretty good dream." The vampire frowns.
"Am I awake?"

Think fast Doyle man. "Nope, definitely not awake, if you
see naked men and smell...things, you must be asleep."

Angel nods and flops on to his back. "Thas good. 'Cause I'd
be pissed if you fucked Oz. Without me that is." He leaned
back up, frowning again. "If this is a dream, than
I can fuck you. 'Cause I can do that in dreams, right?"

Before Doyle could stammer out a negative, wet, slobbery
lips crash into his face, missing his mouth by a cheek, and
ending up in his ear.

Jesus, Mary, Joseph and a few dozen saints. This could get
messy.

~~

Tastes...good. Whiskey salt and sweat honey running down
Doyle's arched neck. Yeah, this made everything better. No
ex-girlfriend thoughts, no soulless rampage dreams, just
the taste. Rank and nasty and slicing into Angel like a
sharp knife into skin. Plunge. Remove. Plunge. Dig.

Ooh, that would feel good. He can't get creative with sharp
implements, but he could plunge. So fucking deep into Doyle
that he'd taste Angel's dead cock rising in his throat.
Angel drags his tongue down the sweat slick chest, twirling
around the nipples, suckling them in turn. He could roll in
that scent, let it permeate his pores, his soul, drown and
be reborn in it.

It's safety and friendship, trust and love. Asks nothing
and gives pleasure.

The vampire rubs his body against Doyle's, soaking in the
heat and sweat. Fails to notice that Doyle hasn't moved and
that Oz can't be seen.

Finally notices that he can't move his hands, or his lower
legs. Angel slowly registers that he's pressing into Doyle
because Oz has straddled his lower legs and captured his
hands. He tries, fails, to free himself. Huh, uh, he knows
he's a vampire. Vampire strength, that whole bit. But he's
feeling weak, or just unwilling to move because his cock is
happy rubbing against Doyle's.

"Hey, Oz. Um, you're sitting on my legs. Um..." Angel moans
as Oz's teeth lightly crease the tender skin of his neck.
He always was a neck man.

"Shut up." Throat constriction tightens Oz's voice, lower
and dryer than usual. Sandpaper on skin, dragging up hair
and skin and wet, sticky blood.

Without realizing it, Angel's fangs descend. The eyes
yellow and he grunts against Doyle, nuzzling the
half-demon's throat. Rests there, luxuriating in all the
bare, warm skin under his body, and the familiar, nearly
forgotten pleasure of having his hands tied to a bed. The
wolf ties them a foot apart, enough to allow movement. Oz
knees his legs apart, lets them fall inside Doyle's spread
legs. Angel's up and over Doyle, arching to keep his face
deep in the crook of Doyle's neck. Then, for this nervy
long moment, there's nothing. No movement, no touch,
nothing and Angel's confused, until teeth scrape down his
left ass cheek.

"Guh." Still capable of speech, or at least grunting, Angel
pants and rubs into Doyle, waits for his lover, his
partner, whatever, to react. Doyle sighs and brings his
hands up to rub at Angel's nipples. Mmmmm, Angel kisses his
way up to Doyle's mouth, lays his open mouth on Doyle's,
jealous of the warm puffs of air. Cause it's moist,
delicious, Angel wants to fill his lungs with that moisture
laden air, pumping through him, heating
the dead blood. So long since he'd bathed in mortality, all
the life like sunshine, searing his corpse.

Then the finely tuned point of Oz's tongue announces itself
to Angel's ass, riding around the minuscule ridge of his
asshole. Angel bites deep into his lips, arching back into
the touch, and grinding forward into Doyle at the same
time. Yeah, that's nice. Very not calm. Very not
soul-having.

Brand of flesh, wriggling and alive, spears Angel. He
howls, and unthinkingly bites the tempting curve of flesh
beneath him. Firm, pale neck rising up from the dark
covers. Spicy blood, mortal and demon, washes Angel's
gullet, a rare treat. Doesn't think to ask. Doesn't care
right then. He opens his eyes, sighs, and retracts his
fangs from Doyle.

Now he can look at the man, and recognize the need in the
eyes. Almost amber with it, fuckfuckfuck, now, now.
Doyle's squirming desperately and he can't move under
Angel, except to raise his head up in silent request.
Angel clumsily, but effectively, knees Doyle's legs further
apart and grunts in approval as the half-demon slides his
legs around Angel's hips. Whisper rasp of hair against
hair, it's been awhile, but Angel remembers. Silky blonde
on the ice pale skin, rubbing into his body. Fuck me now,
Sire, fuck me now.

Now is when Oz fucks Doyle and Angel fucks Doyle and they
all fuck without blood or duty or deathly boring
responsibility.

Oz steps away from the hulking pale body over Doyle, and
Angel mewls. He can't do what he wants without, oh yeah,
there, Oz's suddenly lubeslick hands slip around to the
veined, swollen cock between Angel's thighs, pump it
through the ooshgoosh on the hand, and guides it to Doyle's
body. Collective groansighmoan as the cockhead pops into
Doyle and Oz stops.

Angel can take it from there and he slides into Doyle.
Home. All the comforts and the haunting, wonderful sound of
Gaelic curses pounding into his head as he pounds into
Doyle. Squeezing flesh, it's so tight, this ass is going to
screw off his dick and keep the pulsing flesh.
Light-headed as every ounce of stolen blood floods Angel's
groin. Heavy with need, he pants to a stop, rocking in and
out of Doyle.

Feels Oz's handpaw on his back. Good little vampire, stay
right there. Fingers trace down the bumps of Angel's
spine, and with each count, Angel can feel himself get
harder. At this point, he could cut crystal and it's hot
and hard and in the impossible tightness of Doyle. Crushing
him and Doyle's flexing around him, fuck. So. Good.

Moans as those deft fingers find their way into his ass,
just one long perfect finger diving straight in to make him
scream. Sharp and high and not at all like the brooding
hunk nobody knows and few people love. Then he's filled.
Brim bursting and ball crushing. Oz is not a small man in
at least one respect and has great recovery time. And that
massive maleness probing Angel's guts proves it. Oz's
hands on his hips encourage Angel to move and he tests it
out, relearning forgotten skills. Not the first time he'd
fucked two men. But hey, it's been awhile, and Mary in
heaven, as Oz starts to pump, Angel can't do a damn thing
but let the wolfboy control the thrusts. With every forward
punch of Oz's hips, Angel rams into Doyle, and soon, too
soon, Angel's close.

Nothing good lasts, and this is a case in point, as Angel
lets go, hissing as Doyle's ass milks him, ribbons of come
bursting out and flowing back out, too much for that tiny
space. Silky wet and white, bathing Angel's groin in a
frothy mix of dead semen. Gulps in unneeded air. Collapses
into Doyle and feels their collective jiz squish between
them and Angel hopes that they can move to the shower but
then again it'd be nice to cement himself to mortal warmth.


Oz rises, and the pull of flesh as his cock withdraws from
Angel makes the vampire growl. Unsure whether he wants it
to go or stay, but Oz isn't really making this Angel's
choice. Dip and stir and Oz arches up and grabs Angel's
extended, spread shoulders, gripping tight for leverage.
Thrusts hard, ramming hard enough to shake the vampire's
teeth. Oz sets a punishing pace, and if Angel needed air
he'd be out of luck. Oppressive, hot, and Angel's sweating
as Oz slows, rotates his hips, sending pleasure shocks down
Angel's legs. Uncontrollable shake against Doyle, who licks
whatever he can reach, ears, face, neck.

Oh, fuck, the neck. Whisper soft scrape of teeth down the
stretched flesh and Angel grunts. Cock fighting to rise
again and that's almost too painful to contemplate. Above
him, Oz stills and sinks in once, twice, three times and
shudders. Staccato bursts of semen into Angel. Oz falls to
the side, panting, and that's all Angel can hear. That
and the thundering of human hearts, waterfalls of blood
crashing through veins and complex circuitry.

Callused hands untie Angel and bodies crumble into a mesh
of cold and sweaty warm limbs, pressing into the center of
the bed. Limitless track of soft touch against hard flesh.
Deep into sleep, crashing so fast Angel sees stars, the
vampire gracing the room with a rare, sleepy smile.

~~

Chimes hit noon, snap sprinkle of glass coating the room.
Protective bubble of the moment gone and it's just. Over.
Time to go.

He, both hes, taste like the forgotten. The lost. To time
and memories and pretty blonde girls with destinies and any
pretty girl with a smile.

Some things can't be. Sustained. They exist only for a
split second and we may as well pray for the day to last
all night.

Yeah. Good to know what they taste like.

***