With A Twist

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?"


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.