Sleeping, Connor looks like any other boy. Wesley can appreciate the fine slope of shoulder, the slim hip with its curve fitting to Wesley's palm, the knobs of bone along his spine that Wesley sometimes needs to press his mouth to, tongue tasting each little hill of flesh. Lying still this way, painted in the moonlight, Connor could be any boy who's graced Wesley's bed over the years.
There have been more of those boys than most people would guess. Wesley's charm, his attraction, seems to be the sort that creeps in when you're not looking, slithering past the proper speech, the bookishness, the prim mannerisms and proper behaviors. Of course, Wesley is sure that Connor is not the sort to be bothered with the subtleties of any of those things.
He wakes up abruptly, one moment languid and still and the next tense and coiled. Wesley's hand still on the covers, but there's no need. Connor rolls over, flat on his back, hair over one eye and the other bright and focused on Wes without blinking.
"What time is it?" Connor's voice turns questions into demands. He's like his mother in that respect.
"Nearly nine." Wesley's props himself up on one arm. "We've slept late."
Connor's hand moves to push his hair from his face now and he looks past Wesley's shoulder to the clock on the table by the bed, to the curtains at the window that show the block of dark night sky as it deepens to black from blue. His mouth curls into a grin, almost a smirk, and the excitement passes through him like a current. Wesley can see it almost shimmering on his skin.
"Time to hunt," Connor says and he sits up, reaches out to cup the back of Wesley's neck, kisses him roughly. Connor is teeth and tongue, sharp nips and long lapping tastes of Wesley's mouth. His eyes spark with a darkness and a hunger as he draws back, smile still in place. "Then time to fuck."
"Of course," Wesley says coolly. "Everything in its place."
Connor's eyes blink slowly, acknowledging the dry remark. His eyebrow raises. "Complaints on a postcard," he says and slides from the bed, elegant in his bare skin, graceful and pale.
Wesley watches him, a hint of a smile on his own lips as he licks there and tastes Connor on his tongue. "I'll make certain to print neatly."
Connor's chuckle is enough to set Wesley's blood racing. He's sure the hunt will be a quick one tonight and then, as so succinctly noted, there will be much more enjoyable activities afterwards.
The only thing Connor likes to hunt more than the wilder forms of demon life to be found here in the city, is vampires. Wesley has wisely left that particular subject alone. If Connor's resentments towards his father are being worked out in the systematic destruction of every other vampire in LA and most of the surrounding area, so be it. Wes has made it abundantly clear that lines are drawn for everything and he's not going to hesitate to enforce them if Connor gets another urge to revisit the way he ended one particular summer vacation, out in the ocean with boxes and premature burials at sea.
Tonight the thing they are hunting isn't a vampire at all. Not even remotely humanoid, the T'chokatl are more catlike, if you were to take your average cougar, cover it in scales and add an extra spike-tipped tail. Wesley has no idea how it got so close to the city, or why it hasn't slaughtered the entire block where he thinks its been holing up during the daylight hours.
Connor doesn't care why or how. He tells Wesley this when they get down into the basement of the abandoned building that has all the markings of the creature's den. There are deep claw marks on the stone of the entrance, a warning to other creatures that this place has been claimed, and inside the door the stink of rotted flesh is enough to make Wes gag a bit before he gets it under control. Connor doesn't gag. His nostrils flare as he takes in the scent and processes it, just one more way to know his prey, one more clue on how to track it down.
"I only mentioned it because it may have some deeper meaning," Wesley points out when Connor waves off his remarks about the restraint of the creature being so odd.
"Maybe it's a picky eater," Connor says in a distracted tone, voice low. He crouches down and stares at the floor, tilts his head to see the prints in the layer of grimy refuse there more clearly.
"Or maybe someone or something else is controlling it," Wesley finally says in annoyance.
"Then we'll kill that too." Connor stands up and nods towards the open door that leads into the sub basement of the place. "There. That way."
Wesley sighs. "Of course." He checks his weapon and follows.
The shower is hot enough to burn his skin but currently Wesley doesn't care. The bottom of the tub is slick with water and soap tinged pink from blood that's washed from both his body and from Connor's. Some of that blood is his own, some of it from the last victim of the T'chokatl that they were too late to save, some from the creature itself.
None of it is Connor's. The thing never got in so much as swipe of one claw-tipped paw, not one thrust of the tail that it wielded like a scorpion's stinger.
Right now, Wesley doesn't care if the whole tub fills with blood, his or anyone else's. They've reached that place in Connor's agenda where the hunting is done. Right now Wesley has smooth skin pressed between his body and the tiled wall of the shower, tasting sweat and soap as his mouth moves in a heated trail from shoulder to neck. His teeth skim the rise of collarbone, his tongue laps at the soft place behind Connor's ear and he feels the response in the arch of Connor's back , the press of his hips back towards Wesley's own.
This too is not something that anyone would guess at -- Connor's surrender of body and control. Here with the two of them, all heat and need, it is Wesley who takes the lead. Wesley who presses his body over Connor's, Wesley who slides inside with a groan and a thrust that leaves Connor moaning for more. Two slim bodies under the spray of water, eyes closed and mouths open. Connor's hands are splayed against the wall, lifted up and over his head. Wesley's fingers are wrapped around his wrists, pinning them in place. This first time it will be hard and quick, the blood lust from the hunt making it a necessity. Best to do it in the shower and leave the blood and the hurried pace there to drain away, to go back to the bed together later and take their time.
Now though it's skin to skin, slap of belly to back, grunts of need and satisfaction. Connor's face is pink from the heat of the water, the heat of Wesley's dick buried inside of him. His cheek is flat to the tile, his eyelashes a black arc heavy with water droplets against his skin, his mouth obscenely pretty as it opens to let the moan escape him. His fingers curl against the tile as Wesley holds his arms up and Connor lets him, testing the firmness of the grip just enough to shiver at the restraint. His hips buck back, his own dick rubbing against his belly and the tile, a complete lack of friction on both smooth surfaces that doesn't matter a damn bit. He'll come, just like this, arching and writhing and letting everything else carry him over the peak. Later there will be plenty of time for Wesley's hands to get him off, Wesley's mouth to swallow him down. Right now it's the surrender that matters and he revels in it.
It's quick when it happens, Wesley always makes sure of that. Connor groans, gasps, lifts up on his toes and then he's spilling with a low cry that echoes around the shower, dulled down by the sound of the water still running hot. Wesley's hands hold him, not at his wrists now but around his chest, pulling Connor back against him, long fingers spanning Connor's body as he lets himself fall into the aftermath of climax and knows Wesley has him. He's aware of the hot slickness of Wes spilling inside of him as well, the low groans that sound so much like his own when Wesley's mouth is close to his ear. For a long moment they stand still and shaking together in the shower, and then Connor reaches up and presses his hands against Wesley's. Presses hard as he can, making bruises in his own flesh in the shape of Wesley's fingers.
When the shower shuts off, the sound of the neighbor's radio drifts through the walls, fills the little room with muffled strains of late night jazz. The drip of the water from the shower makes hollow plops in the slow draining water of the tub and Wesley presses a kiss to Connor's shoulder, then his neck.
Right here, right in this moment when there's stillness, Wesley understands everything clearly. They'll move soon enough, but in this small span of time that he wants to spin out into forever, the stillness is all the clarity he needs.