Title: Brand New World (1/1)
Genre: WARNING: Bloodfic, AU. Don't read if this kind of thing squicks you.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Belongs to ME, Fox, etc. I'm a fan.
Summary: This is how it begins.
Notes: A prequel to The Way It Has to Be. I really hope this lives up to the first story.
The water falls from the overturned vase, one slow drip after the other, from the edge of her desk onto the floor.
The traffic sounds from outside are dim, from another world.
She stares, legs bunched together, mascara running.
The heat between her legs has cooled, and she’s just cold now, simply wet.
He’s across the room, by the refrigerator. There’s a burn across his throat, right next to his collar bone.
He’s looking at her like he’s never seen her before.
Eyes wide, breath coming in sharp pants.
(And why is he breathing at all?)
There’s still blood on his mouth, just a little at one corner.
~~Two days ago…
She’d forgotten what Angel was, and walked into work willfully unknowing.
One look at Angel, his eyes, and she’d remembered everything
And everything he wasn’t.Yesterday…
She came to work late. Angel stayed in the basement, and she wondered why she was disappointed, why she was relieved, and how she could feel the two things at the same time. This morning…
An hour ago, she’d come to work and Angel was waiting.
She’d stopped in the doorway and looked at his face, girded herself and walked in, closing the door behind her.
The click of the door had felt as final as a gunshot.
They’d gone through the motions, good mornings and any messages and polite murmurings that meant nothing.
And then when she turned to her desk, his hands were on her hips, crowding her against the wood, trying to pull her around to face him.
She didn’t want to. If she did, it was real and she’d have to face it.
But his mouth was busy on her skin and his hands were harsh on her hips and…
She’d made a sound in her throat, and then another, like a person falling slowly off the edge of a cliff, knowing she was going to die when she hit bottom. He tugged and pressed himself against her back, all along her back from shoulders to legs and she felt it happen, that slipping hotness between her legs, and it scared her, the force of it knocking the breath from her lungs.
His hands began to tug at her skirt, pulling and insistent and it was too much, too much and too soon and she wasn’t even –
He yanked her around and she saw his demon, that thing that needed blood and she had blood. Once a month, her covenant with nature, with the gods and ancient rights of female power and why didn’t she wonder if he’d ever notice?
Of course he would.
She felt it was her fault, because she could have called in sick and gotten paid for it. She knew how to talk around Angel, didn’t she?
So why didn’t she?
He fell to his knees and tugged harder at her skirt, making noises, face against her legs, desperate. No!
she thought as she heard her skirt rip, no, no, no
as he dragged her down, as she crashed to the floor and bumped the desk, knocking things off, as he crawled over her legs, trying to crawl inside, hands reaching underneath, fingers scraping at her bared, tender flesh.
She reached over to her spilled purse and yanked out a cross, pushed it against the part of him she could reach, and heard his flesh hiss as he yelled hoarsely. He pulled back, trying to hold onto her at the same time, and she was crying.
So was he, agonizing tears of shame on his pale face.
“Please,” he’d whispered. “Please. I’m so sorry. I need you – I need to…please...” He’d begun to crawl up her body again, desperate, shaking hands on her skin, clumsy caresses, trying to win her. “Please.” Hoarse and frantic, like an addict begging for a fix, shaking like he would fly apart any second.
She held the cross out, but he didn’t stop, crawling over her, kissing her skin around the symbol, flinching when it touched him, hot mouth on her flesh and she was going under again, drowning under the assault, her body feeling the weight of him like a long wanted desire, a long held and secret fantasy.
He pulled her shirt up, yanked her bra down and licked her nipple, shaking, making sounds she’d heard a puppy make once when it wanted its mother’s milk.
Her blood flowed faster between her legs.
His other hand reached down and latched between her legs, fingers driving up, forcing her into a place where she couldn’t say no. Desire spiked even as she cringed. His fingers were separated from her cunt and blood by a small piece of cotton and wadding and her legs closed convulsively around his wrist in an attempt to push him away or hold him in. She hadn’t been sure which.
“No one has to know,” he’d whispered against her skin, rough tongue licking hungrily. “It’s just us, no one has to know.”
He kneaded her through her underwear, fingers knowing what to do, how to touch and when had she ever been in the throes of that kind of need before, that kind of overwhelming desire to fuck?
Her hips bucked once.
He’d let her cunt go and worked her skirt up, mouth sucking on her nipples, keeping the haze of lust burning so she couldn’t say no, couldn’t think to say no.
She held onto the cross, terrified of feeling his fangs, terrified she would look up and find Angelus hovering over her, mouth gleaming red and white and eyes shining with derisive humor.
He moved down again, leaving her upper body exposed and hot and damp, and she watched the play of sunlight on the ceiling as her hands shook, as Angel pulled her skirt all the way up to her hips, pulled her legs up and apart, and pulled off her underwear.
He settled there, at her font, at the mouth of life, one hand holding her leg up, the other reaching and pulling out her tampon. It was awkward, and it burned her up and when it was gone, she felt the air on her tender flesh, and the come and blood flow free from her cunt.
Angel buried his face down there, pressed against the blood and wetness and she gasped, nearly dropping the cross and arched her back from the feel of his teeth scraping her.
One hand kept her leg up, the other splayed open against her belly; Angel licked and sucked and fed from her and she –
She let him.
She let him and reveled in the orgasm that curled at the small of her back, a beast about to break open her body.
Her fingers gripped the cross tighter, until she felt the inlaid design cutting into the palms of her hands, in the position of prayer. Now I lay me down to sleep
Angel’s tongue in her cunt. I pray the Lord my soul to keep
Gathering the blood.If I should die before I wake
Swallowing it down as his nose kept the pressure against her clitoris.I pray the Lord my soul to take
steady, rhythmic, tongue snaking up and licking over her lips, and when he took her clit into his mouth and sucked, the orgasm sparked there like an atom blast and mushroomed outwards, until her muscles locked and she shook in his hold, against his mouth.
Crying. Praying. Begging. never leave me
He took everything, mouth working against her cunt.
He’s huddled into himself, arms around his legs.
The burn on his neck is the color of a deep sunset, purple and red and burgundy.
She holds herself tighter, waiting for the change to come; to see if she’d let his soul out of its cage.
They are like survivors after a storm, quietly anticipating.
When it doesn’t happen, when he remains the same, she swallows and gazes at him from the ruins of her make-up.
“No one has to know,” she tells him, breaking the quiet. “No one.”
The endless water drips from the overturned vase, counting the sea changes inside of her, her beliefs shifting like continents.
Angel lifts his head to look at her, and nods slowly.
A brand new world.