Summary: None. This is a PWP. This is also a BLOOD fic. Cordelia’s, to be exact. If this squicks anyone, don’t read it.
Rating: Heavily NC-17
Disclaimer: So very not mine.
Notes: This is unbeta’d so my apologies for any mistakes. It’s just that I didn’t want to turn this into something more than what it is, a whim I had. Also, be aware that this is OOC for them in early s1 AtS, but that’s how it formed in my head, so that’s how I wrote it.
Twenty five days or so out of the month, he doesn’t know what to do with Cordelia.
She’s loud and she’s truthful and she sees more of him than he’s comfortable admitting to. He hides behind his desk, in his books, when she’s asking things that he can’t answer. He hovers ineffectually in his doorway when she comes back disappointed at yet another audition that goes nowhere; struggling for words she won’t cut off with a glare or a wave of her hand.
Those times, he’d give anything for a manual, or at least the ability to read minds.
Four days out of the month, he knows exactly what do with her.
Those days, he watches Doyle try and flirt with her, listens while the man talks about how to win Cordelia, interrupts when the half demon’s flirting borders on harassment, and answer the calls she misses. He helps her file, and lets her take two hour lunches on his credit card.
He makes sure there are jelly-filled doughnuts in the office, along with a bag of baked Lays and a six pack of Diet Cream Soda. He watches her eat, watches the tip of her tongue as she licks her fingers delicately after finishing the last chip.
Watches her sigh in satisfaction.
He swears he feels his hunger cutting to the bone right then, scraping along like a paring knife, stripping him bare.
He doesn’t get much sleep the first or second nights, fisting his cock beneath the sheets, biting the flesh over his knuckles so he doesn’t come.
And he waits.
Until the third day, when her cramps are at their worst and she’s going to the bathroom every hour and a half.
When the sun sinks down, he sends Doyle home early, saying he will take care of Cordelia.
And he will.
He watches from his office as she comes back from the bathroom, and gets up slowly. She sees that they are alone and stops, hovers indecisively, wondering whether to run or not.
It’s the same dance, every month for the last three.
He’s out of his office before she can blink, standing too close, like an animal sniffing.
And he is.
Grabs her wrist, and pulls her into his office, snaps the overhead lights off so only the lamp on his side table is giving off light, and shoves her against his desk.
“Angel-“she begins the same way, unsure, and he cuts her off, hand to her mouth, mouth to her mouth, tongue slipping in and pressing against her teeth, her gums.
She moans and he forces himself to go slowly, because he wants to make it good for her, always, so she wants it.
So she wants him.
Wouldn’t think of denying him.
He backs her up against his desk and trails a hand down her hip, smoothing over the slight roundness of her belly, to her thighs. Gathering the material of her skirt up, he slips his hand inside, along that warm leg, up the smooth flesh.
While his mouth loves hers, tongue inside, stroking, encouraging.
Cleaving her to him.
When she clamps onto his tongue and sucks, he groans heavily, and the hand on her thigh surges between her legs, cupping her mound. Her panties are smooth. Not cotton, he registers, and grips her gently, kneading, massaging, and she sucks harder on his tongue, her hands clutching his shoulders as he feels her melt around his fingers, hot and humid and opening like a lush little flower.
His mouth fills with saliva, and the scent of her is heavy, like orchids and pennies, like life and sex.
He takes her arm with his other hand and moves her, forcefully steers her around his desk to where his chair is, keeping his palm hard up against her cunt.
The chair is leather and it has a high back and he wants to see her in it, not making notes, not going through his mail or his books or leaving water rings in the wood. He wants her half naked, spread open, for him, open in every way, dripping, giving life and nourishment and satisfying him and his demon in ways she never imagined as a little girl in her princess’ bedroom and her ice cream pink sheets.
He lowers her in it gently, and she goes, keeping her eyes on him, open lips wet with his saliva.
He gazes down at her in the soft light, and runs a thumb along her bottom lip, watches as it turn a rough, hot pink, and she licks it, licks his thumb.
He slips it into her mouth and she curls her tongue around it like a cat licking cream and he trembles and shakes, hot black fire burning through him instead of blood, instead of breath. Hot like coals, like lava, like his fingers where he can smell her.
He pulls his thumb out of her mouth and drops to his knees, his back hard up against his desk. He doesn’t mind, the pain is like an accompanying piece to the absolute pleasure of pulling her knees apart, running his hands along the insides of her thighs where the flesh is softest, where the scent is strongest, mixing with whatever she bathed in.
He bends his head to her lap and takes a deep lungful, gets harder, falls deeper. His hands pull her skirt farther up, until it bunches at her hips, and he grasps her flesh and slides her forward, until her pelvis is canted against the black leather of his chair.
Her panties are red.
His cock surges, seeking.
He ruthlessly clamps down on it, reminds himself normal men do not crave the menstrual blood of their secretaries.
He’s not a man.
He bends his head again and licks along her crease, the blood scent driving what is civilized in him down deep where there is no light, no reason. Only an ancient need to drink, and fuck.
She surges up at the feel of his tongue, so close to her clitoris but not on it, not yet. Her head goes back and she cries out softly, sounding as though she’s being born and dying at the same time, and he likes that sound, feeds off if it the way he’ll feed from her. Soon.
His fingers glide along the edges of her underwear, worming inside. What he finds is soft, melting heat, and his fingers come away stained red. He sucks them into his mouth and licks slowly with his tongue, like a worm winding around his digits, before pulling her panties off completely.
If there’s a tear or two, he can buy her another pair.
He has before.
When she’s bare to him, open completely, he pushes her thighs up and apart, aware of her soft, heavy-lidded gaze on his face, waiting.
She wants what he can give her, has given her.
What he’ll give her again, any time, anywhere.
Her pubic hair is a dark patch above her cunt, crinkly.
His thumbs pull her outer lips apart, seeking, his hands resting against the bones protruding on either side of her pelvis.
Her clitoris is like a small pink pearl, glistening soft, wonderfully responsive. He skims the surface nerves with his thumb, and she tenses, bites her lip. He smiles at that. But not like a lover, more like a predator.
One who wants to devour. He spreads her further open, his eyes sliding down, following the faint traces of blood to -
Pale string trailing from her body, holding back the flood of life, of nature.
He hates that she wears tampons. He’s read an article or three on toxic shock syndrome, on potential infections, leaving the magazines on her desk to find, but she still wears them.
He licks roughly, all the traces of blood from her clitoris to her opening, the taste provoking him to snarling hunger. He feels himself beginning to vamp and stops it. This thing between them is tenuous at best. He doesn’t want to scare her off by vamping out at the wrong time, reminding her of what she lets between her legs once a month.
He knows women who’ve died screaming in terror of his true face.
He loved it then, thinking he owned them for eternity because of the way they died, but doesn’t want any of that touching whatever it is he has with her.
So he stops, his face against her wet heat, and waits.
When he’s in control again, he takes the string and pulls gently, one hand on her belly, pulping softly. He can feel her uterus contracting, the cramps making her skin hotter, her muscles tensing. As the cotton slides out, stained a deep red in places, he tosses it into the trash can by his desk, and then –
Then he turns back to his prize and watches her body expelling the blood. It oozes from her and he leans down and opens his mouth over the font, sucking, his tongue driving deep, like a beast.
She surges up, thighs closing around his head and he pushes them back open again, hearing her breath his name out in pants.
He stops and looks up at her, her blood staining his mouth like war paint.
“Say my name,” he says to her in a voice not entirely human. She watches him, hands braced on the arms of his leather chair, and blinks, licking her lips, refusing.
He smiles a nasty, predatory smile and reaches up with one hand, driving his fingers through her hair and pulling her head down so his mouth is against hers.
“Say my name,” he repeats himself, knowing she’s breathing in her own scent.
Copper and salt water.
His other hand moves and he drives a finger into her body, curving it and twisting.
She makes a sound in the back of her throat. It might have been his name, or it might have been a pleading for more.
Whatever it is, it’s enough.
He bends back to his task, tongue curling around her clit, sucking, and her legs windmill in his hold, trying for the proper leverage to thrust back.
The blood is calling though and he roots down with his nose, finding it with his tongue a second later, and the life, God the life, that explodes over his senses, his mouth working, swallowing, and the more he works her body, the more there is so that he has to drive his tongue deep in her cunt, trying to find the source, greedy like a child nursing at a breast, grunting, his thumb working her clit so she just gets wetter, giving him more blood.
Her breathing hitches and her head goes back, exposing her neck.
There is a moment with no movement, no breath, where he imagines there isn’t even a heart beat to tell the difference between them, right before the wave breaks over her, like sweeps from an angel’s scythe, and all he sees is the vein pumping visibly at the side of her neck.
He rides her orgasm, tongue on her clit, drawing it out, every last drop.
Then he bends back down and opens his mouth over the well of her cunt and swallows the blood that shudders out.
He reaches down and squeezes his cock ruthlessly, preventing his own orgasm.
Pushes back from her as she slumps in his leather chair, his head banging against the underside of his desk.
His mouth is full of her blood and the stains streak his lips.
There is a pink flush that goes from high on her cheeks to her chest.
He wants to reach for her again, kiss that slack mouth of hers, pull his pants down enough to free his painfully throbbing cock and drive it into the heart of her body.
But he doesn’t, can’t be sure of what will happen if he does that, claims her that completely. He’s not a man, and he’s cursed, and there’s no cure for any of that.
He can only take what he’s allowed and pretend it’s enough.
So when her legs drop boneless to the floor, he pulls them together, and lowers her skirt, smoothing it over her thighs.
He doesn’t touch any other part of her, and when she’s ready, she gets up and walks soundlessly back into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
While he waits, he gathers up her underwear and puts it in his pocket.
Later, when he’s alone, he’ll bring them out again and wrap them around his cock, pull and jerk until he comes.
Then he’ll put them away, with the others. It’s pathetic and makes him feel like he’s violating her somehow but it’s the only way he can keep her safe.
Tomorrow, he’ll listen to Doyle talk about her; maybe offer some suggestions he knows won’t work, and watch her at her desk, flipping through a magazine.
He’ll remember tonight, but he won’t bring it up.
She won’t either.
It’s the way it has to be.