This is a fic I wrote a few months ago and forgot about, apparently. Didn't think that was possible. Anyway, it's basically just your average c/a pwp. The curse isn't a problem to me usually, because Angel is never going to achieve the peace of mind he had the first time he lost his soul,simply because he knows
about the loophole now, and that sort of prevents him from getting to that place again. Doesn't mean he doesn't love Cordy from the top of her well-coiffed head to the tips of her well pedicured toes, though:P
I own none of the characters, and I have no money, just so that's clear.
NC-17. Setting is early S2.
LIKE AN ANIMAL
The alley was narrow, dead ended on the other side.
Angel palms the sword from his collection, liking the weight of it as it balances against his leg, wanting the kill, feeling the bloodlust like an old friend he’s missed.
They’ve been chasing this demon for a week, skirmishing twice before with no satisfying results, and it’s taken five more victims while Wes tried to come up with a reasonably effective way of killing it. It’s an aggression demon, one whose blood poisons where it touches another host, enhancing anger to killing rage, mild pleasure to mindless bacchanalia, attraction to lust.
Finally, Wes came up with a powder, and left Angel to pace the lobby of the hotel while he mixed the ingredients to smear on the blade of Angel’s chosen weapon.
He paced, feeling the kill closing in, the satisfying visceral give of his blade meeting flesh and sliding in like butter.
And all the while he eyed Cordelia, dusting off the desk that she’d claimed for herself and chattering with Wes about nonsensical girl things. Eyes tracing the smooth skin that she was so proud of, the tapering line of her neck down to her sharp clavicle.
He felt himself start to slip down that slope, where the soul’s voice was a dim whisper, and pushed it down ruthlessly,
The demon growls from the shadows, challenging, unbowed.
“Stay back,” Angel warns sharply, when Cordelia gets too close to his side.
“No problem there,” she agrees and backs away, hand axe held in a white-knuckled grip.
Suddenly it rushes forward, and Angel slips into game-face, racing forward to meet the challenge.
For the next five minutes, there is no thought but to draw blood, to let the magic powder work against the demon’s flesh.
It slices him and he doesn’t stop, barely feeling the pain. Wes shouts a warning and he ducks.
He smiles, teeth sharp and white, and dives back in, catching the green monster around the waist. It stumbles and Angel falls on top, hand bring the sword up for a killing blow, but then he’s flying back through the air, barely slowing his own momentum before he collides with Cordelia.
She yelps, and he spins, taking her against the front of his body in a roll, until he’s curled around her back.
They land on all fours, and she instantly stiffens, head snapping up and nearly connecting with Angel’s.
He growls, short and sharp, sliding his knee down her ass, between her legs, and jerks up in a rough caress, palming her waist in a grip hard enough to bruise.
She chokes out a cry, fingers curling against the dirty ground, pushes down against the pressure before she can stop herself, breath burning her lungs.
Angel feels her ancient surrender, and his aggression notches up another ten degrees.
Then he’s off her and back into the fight, eyes flickering back to her briefly here and there as he finishes the demon.
“Dear lord Angel, that took an inordinate amount of time to kill,” Wesley huffs down next to Angel on the curb, sweat staining the white shirt in a pattern between his torso and back.
“Well, it was an aggression demon, Wes. By its nature, it lives for the fight.”
Angel is talking to Wes, but his eyes are on Cordelia as she pulls bandages and iodine out of her oversized bag. She won’t meet his eyes, but that’s okay, it’s fine.
It only means that she’s not stupid.
She walks up to the both of them, smiling at Wesley, slightly breathless, slightly nervous.
“Okay, Wes, lets get that cut cleaned up.” She kneels down between them, more facing the ex-Watcher then her boss, but Angel doesn’t take his eyes from her. She’s wearing a long sweater to cover her jersey halter, legs covered by a pair of jeans, but he can still smell the tang of her sweat, mixing with something deeper, sweeter between her legs.
After the cut under Wes’s eye has been seen to with such tender ministration, Angel waits for his turn, but she simply packs up and moves away.
“Okay, let’s go.”
Wesley’s eyebrow climbs higher up his forehead as he smiles at Angel.
“She orders and we obey.” He says as he climbs to his feet. “Do you need some help?” He holds out a hand to the vampire.
Angel moves gracefully to a standing position, and both his employees take a small step back at this display of his non-humanness.
“I’m okay. Let’s roll.”
He drops Cordelia off first at her apartment, watches as she climbs awkwardly from the backseat. During the drive, the review mirror apprises him of her status, squirming silently as she tries not to stare at the back of his head.
She doesn’t do more than wave good-bye when Wes calls out to her.
The ride to Wes’s is full of post-fight assessments on how well they performed. Angel listens and only occasionally nods.
When he’s alone, he lets out a breath as a cleansing act, trying hard to let go of the aggression and failing miserably. All he can see is Cordelia’s soft body under his, lush curves that he can still feel in his grip. The scent-memory of her arousal is culled from the depths of his mind, that night two months ago when he walked in on a private moment.
The memory his balls up tight in sudden painful recollection.
He spins the car in a hard U, thanking whatever powers are looking out for him that the streets are relatively empty.
He’s parked in front of her apartment in five minutes and out of his car in less than five seconds. He approaches the front of her building, assesses where her bedroom window is and shimmies up the side.
He spots her immediately through the gauzy curtains, the low light from the lamp casting a soft glow over her bedroom.
Her outline on the bed, dark shape writhing in the half-lit shadows. Her hair is a spill of silk over her pillow, head slumped down as she concentrates whole her body on the hand working between her legs, knees drawn up as if to hold the sensation for as long as possible.
Her eyes are closed and Angel knows she’s thinking about their accidental contact.
He wants to be in there, with her, on the bed twisting with her, her hand on his cock as he twists his fingers deep enough to make her howl like Oz on a full moon night.
He brings a hand up to tap the window.
Her eyes shoot open and she jerks up on her elbow, fingers withdrawing, trying to see through the curtains.
He knows when she spots him; her heart seems to stop for a second before resuming like a bird caught in a trap, all that sweet blood scenting the air along with her fear.
Makes it so much better when she knows what’s coming.
Not breaking eye contact, he taps the window, less gently this time and hears the clink of the flimsy glass as it breaks.
But he’s not listening anymore, can’t hear her through the roar in his ears, can only see the delicious, pretty picture she makes on the mattress and comes through the opening like a bullet fired from a gun.
She tries to roll off, onto the other side, but he’s faster. Glass raining down between the bed and window, he lands with easy grace on her bed, coat flapping around him like wings.
He captures her ankle and tries to pull her back under his body but she’s learned too, and rears back, kicking him in the face with her free foot, twisting and throwing herself off the other edge. He grunts and follows, both of them crashing to the floor.
“What are you doing!?” Panic is making her voice squeak badly, shock warring with anger. He crawls up her body, hand scraping at her t-shirt, dragging it up as he straddles her torso.
“Stop,” he says, stilling her by crossing both of her arms over her chest, caging her. She can’t fight his strength, so she does, reserves her energy for when there’s a chance.
He’s taught her so well.
“Are you crazy? Did you lose your soul again?” She asks as panic thrums up and down her body, waiting for him to vamp out, to bite her. He wants to, he really does, bury fangs in her soft, exposed throat, take everything she has.
“I’m not crazy and I didn’t lose my soul,” he reassures her, feels her soft body under his, enjoys it like he hasn’t enjoyed anything else the last 240 years.
“Then what are you doing?” She asks. He kneels down closer to her, presses his forehead against hers. She calms a little at this familiar gesture, a little reassured that her friend is still in there.
“What were you thinking about, just now, when you were touching yourself?” He asks, insidious, wanting her secrets. She goes completely still suddenly, barely daring to look at him. Her blush roars through her, painting her face and neck a pretty shade of pink he can see in the dark. “Me, you were thinking of me, right?”
It’s not wrong to want affirmation of what’s he knows is true and real, but Cordelia is so damned stubborn, so intent on keeping chunks of herself to herself.
“None of your business Angel - get off of me!” She surges upwards, angry beyond words at his nerve. He doesn’t move, just raises his head and takes her in.
The t-shirt she’s wearing is loose enough to breathe in, but tight enough to show her breasts in a hard outline, the nipples jutting up, plumped by her arms. The tang of her wet heat is still heavy, and he knows that if he sits back a little, rocks a little, that he’ll set off the puffy clit behind her underwear, make her leak more of that wetness so she can’t ignore it, or him.
He leans back down instead and takes her mouth in a hard kiss, tongue sweeping into the warm cavern of her mouth and rubbing against hers. She squeezes her eyes shut and moans, deep and painful, her body on fire all over again.
He pulls back, pants against her open mouth, and takes another hard kiss, shallower this time, but just as possessing.
“It was me, you were thinking of me.” She shakes her head, trying to hold onto what was private. “Yes, you were thinking of earlier, right?”
His cock is painfully hard, throbbing with stolen blood.
He releases her arms, turns her over until her belly is pressed to the floor, angles down until his pelvis is flush against her bottom, chest above her back, arms braced just under her breasts. She chokes on a cry, an echo of the earlier one, and he grinds steadily, pushing her pelvis against the hardwood floor.
“It’s okay to want this, Cordy, to want me. I want you too.”
“No, this isn’t about us, Angel, you were infected by that demon-“ Her words sound weak to him, her protest dying under an onslaught of his hands dragging over her flesh, exposing her breasts to the night air. He pulls her up until she’s on her knees and presses his thigh under hers, between her legs, hands cupping her breasts as his fingers run over her nipples, squeezing gently, so gently she wants to weep from the pleasure firing down her body.
He nuzzles her neck, running a moist line down to her clavicle and back up to just under her ear.
“You taste so good, Cordy.” He scrapes blunt teeth and she has a bad moment, waiting for her flesh to rent and tear, but the bite doesn’t come.
All that she feels are his big hands running over her body as his hips crash against her ass, his knee between her legs taking her higher than she’d taken herself.
She’s nearly riding his thigh, hands pushed against the ground so she can level up, push back. She needs the resistance, just a little more pressure –
He pulls back and jerks her up, nearly throwing her across her mattress. She sprawls on her belly, and he climbs back on, straddle her hips and reaches under her to cup her breasts in his hands again, kneading the pliant flesh.
“Tell me you want this,” he whispers, grinding against her, one hand running down the center of her torso. She grunts, incapable of coherent thought, of forming speech. “Tell me, baby.”
He lets go of her and reaches between them, unbuckling his belt and pulling his pants down just enough to free his cock. Then he pulls her shorts down, exposes that incredible ass to his view, and she spreads her thighs enough so that he slips between.
“I want it, Angel,” she grits out finally, giving permission.
He thinks his chest is going to explode at her acceptance, and rears back before inserting just the tip of his staff, nearly groaning at the scalding heat of her, of Cordelia, sweet Cordelia, the sweetest-
He pushes in further and feels her accepting him, sucking him into her body and he moves, thrusts one hand underneath her hips and slides a finger along the seam of her slit, coaxing her clit out with a gentle gliding action while he fucks her in long, slow thrusts.
“Dammit Angel,” she screams into the sheets, and he smiles grimly. He wants her to scream his name, claw at the mattress like a mindless fledgling wild for her Sire, understand that no one else will ever make her feel like this but him, can’t ever let anyone else try. He’s going to imprint himself on her body and make her understand that ownership is just as important to a soulled vampire as an unsoulled one.
He pushes his finger between her inner lips, feels the moisture that leaks from her and buries his face in the back of her neck, taking in her scent as he thrusts harder against her.
It’s like lightning through her lower body, like currents that grow larger and larger with every exquisite sweep of his finger, pulling on her nipples and expanding the flesh of her clit, and he feels all of it, feels his balls gather up close and the nerves at the base of his spine fire and he’s swept under, jerking hard against her as she orgasms, muscles squeezing him and he’s helpless, mindless, comes inside her, gives her everything.
After what seems like another hundred years, he slows down to soft thrusts as the aftershocks shake him, and then leaves him still.
In the privacy of his head, he drifts, not satisfied, not really, because it’s Cordelia and he can’t get enough, not nearly, not yet, maybe not ever. But he’s satiated for the moment and that’s all he can hope for.
It’s quiet, nothing but her harsh breathing and the feel of sweat-dampened bedclothes. He softens inside her but doesn’t want to give this up, until she pushes him off with a jerk of her hips. He rolls, aware of his clothes sticking to him, covering his eyes with one arm as he feels her withdraw, climb off the bed.
It’s about four seconds later, when he hears the dresser drawer slide open, that he thinks it was a bad idea to remain in such a vulnerable position, that Cordelia might not be basking in the afterglow the way he was.
He uncovers his eyes and rolls over quick, just narrowly avoiding the stake she’s got fisted. The other hand is holding that stupid oversized cross he asked her to get rid of, but he can’t take his eyes off her body.
She managed to pull her shorts back up but the t-shirt is still pushed up above the high slope of her breasts, hair tangling wildly around her face, and she looks more beautiful and more tempting than any courtesan he ever drained.
“I didn’t lose my soul,” he reassures her, pulling his coat off and laying it aside.
Her chin jerks up.
“Why not-? Ugh, I mean, so what? You think you can just work off a little demon aggression on good ole’ Cordy? I don’t think so!” She lunged again and he knocks her off balance, her body falling across the bed again as he grabs the cross from her, feeling it burn against his flesh in the second it takes to fling it across the room. The stake is easier, falling from her grip as she lies and looks up at him with frustrated anger.
“We’re going to forget about this, right? The demon bled on you, poisoned you, that’s obvious.” He pulls his shoes off and shrugs out of his shirt as he listens to her talk. “But that doesn’t mean this is going to happen *ever* again, got it vampire?” She glares up at him, waiting for his agreement. He simply pulls his pants off and gets her under the covers with little fuss.
“Whatever you say, Cordelia, now go to sleep.” He gets in the bed with her, pulling her shirt down and hooking a leg over hers before settling down onto her second pillow. The smell of sex is all around them, her flesh still damp from the orgasm he gave her, and he tries very hard not to feel total contentment.
“We’ll talk about it later, Cordelia,” he snuffles in her hair and she quiets but he can tell she’s not done.
“You owe me a window,” she whispers, getting the last word.
He feels her relax, and in a few minutes her breathing slows down, her heartbeat evens out and she’s asleep.
He props his head in his hand and watches her sleep by the light of the moon. It’s going to be a problem, getting her to accept the way things were going to be, but he will.
He has to.