Archive for August 2015

Body Art.   Leave a comment

Title: Body Art
Author: samsom
Posted Here: 04/10/06
Rating: R?
Category: hurt/comfort, angst.
Content: C/A
Summary: I’ve always wondered about the Crucifix tattoo Cordelia keeps covered up, and why she got it.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: Just ask first
Notes: When I woke up this morning, I wanted to write, and Cordelia popped in, all moody and full of feeling. A sequel to Eternity My Way.
Feedback:Feedback and concrit welcome.

The night comes quietly, covering L.A. in a blanket of muted blue darkness.

Angel is at his desk, an outline in black slumped down in his chair, eyes on nothing except what he sees in his memories.

Brood mode.

That’s what she calls it, a careful repose of stillness and reflection.

What goes on behind all that self-control she can only guess at.

She slips her bag off and lays it on top of her desk, adjusting the bandage at her left wrist a little more loosely and flicking on her desk lamp.

Walking over to his door, she leans on the frame and stares at him with arms folded across her chest, head tilting to the side as she considers him.

“Thinking thinky thoughts again, broody boy?”

He shifts his eyes up to hers.

So much pain reflected there, so much regret.

She thinks he’s probably dug the well deep enough to drown in by now, and she supposes that’s what she gets for leaving him alone for so much of the day.

She scratches at her bandage again, and his eyes follow her movements, nostrils flaring suddenly.

“You got another tattoo.”

Not a question, just a statement. She nods and turns to go back to her desk.

He follows, standing over her desk and staring down at her with eyes black and compelling, deep and troubled.

“Can I see it?”

She glances up at him as she considers his request, then finally nods.

He comes around her desk and kneels next to her chair, taking her wrist in his large hands, smoothing fingers over the bandage where it wraps tightly to her skin.

She keeps her gaze on his bent head, eyes caressing his features, resisting the urge to cup her hand over the curve of his skull and gentle him with soft strokes.

Touch heals, she’d read once, and she wants so badly to heal Angel.

He turns her wrist and takes in the blood spots seeping through the weave and his hand tighten ever so slightly, his breathing hitching softly in his throat.

“I want to see it.” He demands, voice hoarse with something forcibly muffled.

She shakes her head slightly, but he doesn’t see it because he can’t take his eyes off her bloodied wrapping.

“Maybe not,” she answers, pulling her wrist from his grip.

He tightens it, not letting her go.


It’s always this Angel she finds hardest to resist, hardest to shut out.

She relaxes her arm and he takes it for the acquiescence that it is, unfastening the catches and unwinding the bandage with a hurried motion.

She winces at his handling and he gentles the action in response, making a little noise of apology in the back of his throat.

When the last of the wrapping falls away, he takes the tip of the gauze and peels gently back, exposing the art she’d chosen from a book at the tattoo parlor.

A rosary winding around the inside of her wrist, with the Crucifix cushioned at the base of her hand.

The flesh is still swollen, red from the needle’s repeated invasion, and bleeding just slightly.

Angel doesn’t flinch, just cups her hand in his big palm and stares without moving even though it has to hurt to look at it.

“He swabbed with alcohol, right, he didn’t use anything dirty?”

She’d been to the artist twice before and rolls her eyes at the question.

“Of course.”

He smoothes his forefinger at the edges of the Crucifix, causing aftershocks of pain riding pleasure to fire under her skin.

She shivers, and it doesn’t escape his notice.

“Why?” he asks.

She nearly laughs at his question, because she’d been asking herself the same thing all day.

Maybe to ward Angel off if he ever loses his soul again, or drugged enough to forget he has one.


Or maybe to protect herself against the yawning chasm she feels opening at her feet whenever she looks at him.

She could fall so deep if she didn’t watch it.

Fall so far, she’d lose herself.

“Lots of surprises out there, Angel, I don’t know if I’d be able to reach for a stake in time.”

It’s such a flimsy half reason, and he knows it.

He turns on his heel to face her more, stares up into her face with those needy eyes, full of reproach and guilt.

“I’m sorry I can’t keep you safe from everything.”

From me

It goes unspoken, but it’s there between them and she feels so hopeless to help him that she reaches out with her free hand and cups her palm to his cheek.

“It’s okay,” she replies quietly, “it’s going to be okay.”

He lets her hand go to wrap his arms around her torso, embracing her and resting his head against her chest.

It’s such an unAngel thing to do that she freezes for a second before relaxing her body into his touch, unable to say no.

“Angel.” She whispers into the air above his head, feeling her own need for him rise like smoke from a fire flaring to painful life.

Keeping her tattooed arm stretched away from him, she leans down and kisses his forehead, opening her lips to taste his skin.

Does it again because she can’t help herself, feeling that chasm opening beneath her, kissing her way across his forehead and down his cheek, sucking motions that leave damp spots on his flesh, marking him.

He holds still for her, face turning upward into her kisses, breathing into her face, inhaling her breath into his body, and she breathes harder in response, her kisses longer and longer until he finishes it by turning and catching her mouth with his.

Moaning, he pulls her closer still and she arches, opening her legs to cradle his upper body against her, welcoming the thrust of his tongue in her mouth with hungry noises that vibrate through his dead flesh, waking him up inside.

His mouth is a chalice, and she devours it with lips and tongue, wrapping her unblemished right arm around his shoulders, anchoring his body to hers as they sink down under, drowning in the Rapture.

They’re the only two people in the world.

Until the jar of the phone rips him from her hold.

He stumbles backwards, horror making his eyes wide, not stopping until he’s standing at his office door.

She just sits and stares up at him, feeling like she wants to grab him back and finish. Her body is burning for him, and she’s not ready to stop.

But the phone goes on ringing and gradually she comes back to her senses, staring at him, shocked at what she’d almost let happen, how far it had gone on.

Angel turns and disappears into his office, slamming the door between them.


Later, she takes the elevator down to his apartment.

The bandage has been reapplied, and after taking a couple of pills for the pain, she feels ready to face him again.

Searching the darkness, she finds him sitting in his easy chair.

The kitchen table is in pieces all over the floor.

She looks back at Angel.

“That was Wesley on the phone. He needs you to meet him at a Chinese herbalist shop in half an hour.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything.

“Here’s the address.”

She moves forward with a slip of paper held outstretched in her hand.

“Don’t.” He clips off tightly.

come near me

She sighs and drops the paper on the ground between them.

“I won’t,” she promises.

ever again, so help us God.

She turns to go.



Posted August 11, 2015 by califi in Complete

Black Days.   Leave a comment

Title: Black Days. A Darkness Within Forum Fic
Author: Samsom
Posted: May 14, 2006
Rating: R/N-17
Category: Maybe a little angst. Mostly seduction and teasing
Content: Cordy/Angel
Summary: A remix of certain canon events in S2, during Angel’s ‘dark time’
Spoilers: Mid S2
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: DW/GTCA. anywhere else, please ask first.
Warning:slightly non-con at points, but come on, it’s Angel. Have you *seen* him?
Feedback: But of course

He watched them dancing.

*I-I’m in the middle of it*

Watched her.

She looked so happy, her hips moving the way he remembered, when he used to watch her at the Bronze, grooving to Wesley’s slower movements.

*hands shoving the phone book against his chest*

Her face was open, smiling that glowing can’t-touch-this grin of hers.

*don’t make me move you*

They must’ve solved a case, thinking they were doing good, making a difference. Didn’t they know the universe didn’t care, that hell was all around them?

*please make me, please*

He watched Cordelia, bright face in a sea of grey and black and red, feeling the creep of cold along his bones.


All the way home Cordelia felt that old Sunnydale feeling of being watched, like dinner cooking on the stove.

She hurried out of Gunn’s truck, waving good bye to him as she rushed up the steps of her building, stake clutched in one hand. Gunn took off as soon as she was inside.

Dennis, ever helpful, swung her door open.

Inside, it was warm, and the stereo was on, soft music filtering from the speakers.

Exhaustion did a slow and thorough crawl through her body, and she swung her purse off her shoulder and onto a chair, dropping the stake on top, and crossed over to plop onto her couch with a tired sigh.

“It was rough, Dennis, I won’t lie to you. But hey, we had a client, and got paid, so yay, here’s to eating for another couple of weeks.”

The ghost waggled the remote control at her.

“No thanks, I think I’ll take a bath and head off to bed. “

She got up and headed off to the bathroom, stripping and dropping her clothes on the hallway floor. When she’d first moved in, she tried to clean up after herself, but after a while it became clear that Dennis liked picking up after her and, after a longer while, she liked letting him.

In the bathroom, Dennis ran the water and poured some of her bath beads in, heating up the bathroom just like she liked it.

She climbed in slowly, letting the heat move up her body in degrees, until she was immersed in the scented, soapy water.

Music drifted in through the closed door, and Cordelia settled herself back on the foam cushion against her head and closed her eyes, sighing contently.

Solved their first case, without what’s-his-name, and gotten paid to boot. Underneath the tired feeling was a little tinge of hopefulness, that maybe they could do this alone.

Seeing Angel at the hospital had been a nasty shock, and she hated him right then for the spark of blind hope it caused. Finally being able to tell him what she’d wanted to say to him – that had been the single most satisfying thing in her life to date.

She nearly convinced herself that she wouldn’t be seeing him ever again after that, until he came for the book. Barged into their office like he had every right, she wanted to stake him so bad her hand itched for the wood…

…and threatening her – well, now she knew, didn’t she?

Now she could let go.


A noise jerked her out of the half stupor the heated water had lulled her into, and she sat upright, listening again.

The music was louder, almost blaring through the door.

“Dennis? Turn the music down!”

He didn’t answer and the volume didn’t lessen.

With a huff, she heaved her heat-weakened body from the water, wrapping her robe around her shoulders.

“The neighbors are going to complain, D-“

She swung the door open and stepped into the hallway, coming up short.

Angel snapped the stereo off, and the apartment plunged into sudden silence.

“Hello Cordelia.”


“Get out!”

Hot anger swamped over her at his presumption in just walking in anywhere and everywhere he pleased, and she pointed at the front door furiously.

“I mean it, get out!”

He didn’t move, just kept staring at her, and her heart tripped a beat in her chest.

Had he lost his soul?

She crossed her arms over her chest, hoping he couldn’t hear the painful thump of her blood in her ears, or the audible way she swallowed.

Then he spoke.

“We were having a talk earlier, and before Wes interrupted, I got the sense you wanted something from me.”

He walked closer to her, and she steeled herself not to back up.

“Your head on a plate maybe.” She replied icily.

He stopped directly in front of her, eyes fierce on her face.

“Or maybe this,” he said, grabbing her arms and shoving her back against the wall next to the bathroom door. She gasped in shock, and he covered her mouth with his in a kiss that sent lightning through her nerve endings like a lit fuse of dynamite.

Oh god, he hadn’t lost his soul, just his damned mind.

She pushed against him but he wasn’t budging so she tried tearing her mouth away but he’d pressed her head back with the force of his kiss, plunging his tongue in and stroking her teeth and tongue like he was trying to lick all the way inside her body, pushing against her with his chest and hips.

He pulled back to gently sniff along her face, whispering.

“Is this what you wanted?”

Kissed her cheek.


He pulled her robe open and cupped a breast, and she keened low in her throat, body prickling and goosing up with sensation.

“Scream for me, baby?”

He bent his head and latched his mouth around a nipple, sucking on it until Cordelia literally saw black spots in front of her wide open eyes.

He let go suddenly and she would have sunk to the floor from shock and anger and excitement, but he grabbed her wrist and pushed her through the apartment, through the open door of her bedroom ahead of him, following more slowly.

She stumbled to a halt against the foot of the bed.

“What do you want, Angel?”

He shrugged off his trench coat, letting it drop to the floor.

She edged around the bed, watching him come at her with slow purpose.

“I just want to feel something besides the cold, Cordy.”

He grabbed her shoulders and threw her back, down on top of the covers. She tried to scramble backwards to the other side but he yanked her flat by her ankles and fell heavily on top of her.

He braced his arms on either side of her head, hands brushing her hair from her face.

“Shhh, its okay,” he whispered, leaning down for another soul-stealing kiss that left Cordelia breathless, preventing her from thinking clearly. “Nothing matters anymore.”

He pushed her robe off her shoulders and reached up to pull his shirt over his head as she stared at him in disbelief, incredulity clearing away the cobwebs of desire Angel had weaved around her with his touch.

“Are you trying to lose your soul, Angel?”

He didn’t say yes, he didn’t have to.

It was there in his eyes.

She reached up and slapped him hard across the cheek.

“You’re trying to use me, to lose your soul?” She laughed harshly. “Boy howdy have you got the wrong girl, or don’t you remember the blonde you left in Sunnydale?”

He growled and grabbed both her hands, yanking them over her head, arching her body up into his. He was hard, pressing on her thigh, and heat shot through her belly.

“Or what about the blonde skank crawling around the edges of your dreams the last few months? Too busy running around killing innocent people to pay any attention to her darling boy?”

A small, mean smile lit his features and she recalled the moment Angelus tackled her in the graveyard four years ago. He’d had the same smile.

“I’m just giving you what you want, too, Cordy,” he breathed against her mouth, “you wanted me the other day in your new office, and if Wes hadn’t interrupted-“

“What, you’d have raped me then instead of now?”

He laughed softly, one knee rubbing her thigh before nudging her legs open, his body falling between her bent knees. The robe shifted, and his clothed hips pressed against her bare flesh, the friction stealing her breath and she tried not to gasp.

“Are you really gonna throw that word out there, Cordy,” he bent and ground his face against hers as his hips jerked against her center. “When I can smell how much you want me right now?”

“That’s not consent, Angel, that’s just basic friction,” she spit at him, furious with his vampire senses and-and- just him in general. His stupid issues and moodiness and despair and fuck him for making her fucking care still, goddammit.

She wanted to cry, to stake him, to scream at him, to pull him down and fuck the black despair from his eyes.

She opened her mouth for his next kiss, welcomed his tongue with her own and chased it back into his own mouth, listening to his moans, helping him shove his pants down past his hips, and freeing his cock and then it was inside her, breaking through the outer dryness into her wet heat, surging up to meet his thrusts with her own.

She wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him all the way down on top of her and scratching her nails down his back as he tried to fuck her through the mattress.

“Angel.” She whispered fiercely when he lifted his head.

Mouth half open, eyes half closed, he stared down at her as she arched her head back against the pillow.

He bent his head again and ran his mouth up the side of her neck, licking like he was tasting fruit of the vine. He sucked hard on one particular spot and she wondered blindly if he was trying to draw the blood through her skin.

Big, cold hands cupped both her breasts and gently molded them in his palms, kneading in time with his thrusts.

Her breathing grew ragged as her belly and pelvis tightened, Angel’s pelvic bone grinding down on her sweet spot with the accuracy of a World Series winning pitch.

She opened her eyes and glanced up at the glazed look on his face, knowing he was going to come soon, too, letting the knowledge send her over that final precipice.

She froze, the spasms beginning in her clit and branching outwards, her uterus contracting with the force of her orgasm, and she clamped down hard on his hips with her legs, riding it.

He jerked violently, and started to come-

-she reached up and slapped him hard across the face.

His head snapped to the side as he shot inside of her, grunting with the combined pleasure/pain. She slapped him again even as she thrust her hips up at him, milking every drop of tremor and sensation she could from his body.

When he was done, slumped over her like a limp noodle, she shoved at his shoulders until he fell to the side and she rolled out from under him, scared that the distraction hadn’t worked.

His hand shot out and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her back down to the bed. She fell next to him.

He turned his face to look at her.

It was still Angel.

“Why did you slap me?”

She rolled her eyes, fury mixing with profound relief.

“You may want to commit suicide, Angel, but you aren’t taking me with you.”

“I wasn’t-“

“Don’t be stupid. What did you think would happen once your soul drifted off to the light?”

He blinked slowly, and for the first time, she saw shame in his gaze.

“Yeah, now you get it.”

He closed his eyes, pulled her closer to him and rested his head on her shoulder, his arm wrapping around her bare waist to hold her to him.

She sighed and stared up at the ceiling, slowly drawing patterns against his forearm with a fingernail.

“Whatever set you off-“

“Nothing set me off, Cordy, all I did was realize nothing we do matters. Evil is everywhere, and we aren’t enough to stop it. It will always be there.”

She turned her head to look at him.

“How could a vampire that’s lived as long as you be such a dumbass? If nothing we do matters, then all that matters is what we do, Angel. Wes and Gunn and I, we get that.” The tears started in the corners of her eyes and fell over the bridge of her nose, and down into her hair, making little wet tracks on her skin. “Can you get it, can that be enough?”

He stared at her for a long time, weighing her words, and then lifted a hand to her face, catching a tear with his finger and bringing it to his mouth to lick.

“I think so.”

She turned onto her side, facing him, giving him a blinding, if sleepy, smile.

“Good,” she replied. Then her eyes popped open with a fresh memory.

“Oh, and you owe me some new clothes, by the way, since you saw fit to give half my wardrobe to the homeless.”

He smiled.


The smile faded away and he frowned at her.

“Are we okay?”

She shook her head sadly.

“We’re not, not yet. You really hurt my feelings, so it’s gonna take a while.”

He brushed her hair back over her shoulder with his free hand, staring at her like she was his lifeline in a very big, very shark-filled ocean.

“I can wait.”

“Damn straight,” she muttered before closing her eyes a final time.

She fell asleep eventually, snoring softly into the linen.

Angel pulled the rest of his clothes off, peeled her robe out from under her and cacooned them both under the covers.

He wrapped his body around hers, watching her sleep until dawn.



Posted August 11, 2015 by califi in Complete

Eternity My Way.   1 comment

Title: Eternity My Way
Author: samsom
Posted Here: 04/10/06
Rating: R?
Category: Violence, harsh language.
Content: C/Aish. Try not to be stunned.
Summary: in my head, the end of Eternity went something like this.
Spoilers: Eternity, but only if you squint.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: Just ask first
Notes: When I woke up this morning, I wanted to write, and Cordelia popped in, all moody and full of feeling. This is my first attempt, to my knowledge, at Angelus. I don’t pretend to be any kind of expert on him, and I’ll apologize in advance if I committed OOCness. I started this four months ago as a writing excercise and needed like crazy to finish it. Ya’ll get to be the experimentees. ::cues evil laugh::
Feedback:FB and concrit always welcome.

It happened so fast she didn’t know how to react.

Striding into the office with her bag over her shoulder, newspaper under one arm –

sees Angel standing there, close to the center of the room like he’d been waiting for her –

-smiles as she walks in, catches sight of someone slumped over in the corner, turns back to Angel with puzzlement beginning to fill her eyes, and sees the smile change to a smirk, eyes colder than the lowest center of hell-

Has a bad moment that makes the bottom drop from her stomach before he reaches out.

A punch square to her right cheek, gentle by his standards, and she goes flying back, her body landing with a thud, coffee and newspaper scattering around her head as she fights the darkness rising around the edges of her vision.

The echo of his footsteps around her head, slowly, as he circles her, watching his eyes survey her body and she can’t move, can’t do anything but try to lift her head, open her eyes all the way, and fail.

Hears a distant moan and turns to see Wesley through a blur, grateful to the point of tears that he’s still alive enough to feel pain, and Angel chuckles.

She wants to hate him then, but all she can think of is the loss, the unbearable loss, of his soul.

Was he aware of being gone?

Was he scared?

His legs straddle her and he kneels, knees on either side of her hips, and she moans silently to herself, wanting to push him off.

“Hurts? I tried to pull back, but you look so pretty when you’re dazed – all helpless and bruised.”

His voice sounds like it’s far away, but she can still hear the sadism in his tone, silky menace wrapped up in Angel’s familiar voice.

His fingers grasp her chin and he pulls on her jaw, until her eyes track to his.

“Good news, Cordy –I’m finally in a good mood.”

She stares blankly up at him, wanting to say something cutting but the words won’t come.

“Nothing to say, kitten?”

She blinks to try and bring him into focus, and sees his beautiful smile – so wrong with those eyes.

The fingers gripping her jaw soften, slipping gently down her throat.

The look in his eyes changes, losing all of the mock humor she loathes, becoming serious.

“You’re a tease, you know,” he whispers, eyes running over her face.

A tease?

“You come into this office every day with those revealing clothes you wear and smelling the way you do and you toss your hair while you make jokes at my expense and you sit there and you don’t think that I’ll react, that I won’t notice that you’re begging for it every day-“

His hands slipping down her body with every word, dragging her blouse apart while his words cut her up inside and she tries not to cry, reminds herself he doesn’t mean it he’s just trying to hurt her he doesn’t mean it-

“No,” she whispers, bringing her hands up to try and push his away from her but he captures them, laces their fingers together and holds them against his chest as his eyes burn into her like black coals, dead and vacant and wrong.

He cocks his head at her.

“You know it, too, don’t you?”

He presses his open lips against her knuckles as he eyes her, dragging his sharp teeth until her skin splits open and the blood beads up. He licks them away slowly, letting her see the red on his tongue before it disappears back into the dark cavern of his mouth.

She remembers Little Red Riding Hood in one of her father’s storybook collections, the drawings of the wolf salivating as it stood over Little Red, black eyes devouring the girl as he tried to lure her from the path.

She remembers scorning Little Red for not running, for not seeing the monster he was, and the irony is just choking her because the monster who was her friend, her first real friend, is licking her blood up like it was ice cream dripping from a sugar cone, liking her squeals as he bites deeper into her fingers.


“You like teasing, don’t you? Probably doing it when you were just a little girl in your pigtails and Mary Janes.”

He leans in.

“Were you trying to get Daddy’s attention, baby – hoping for more than a pat on the head along with the credit cards?”

She jerks her hands out of his, lashing out and manages a ringing slap across his face.

His head snaps to the side and she tries to rake his face with her bloody fingers but he catches her hands and laughs, sounding delighted.

“Oh you are going to be fun, precious.” He jerks her up into a half sitting position, so close to him that the shimmering flecks of gold in his demon eyes takes up her whole vision.

“And I promise you, I’ll be a very attentive daddy,” he grabs her hand and forces it palm open against his crotch, making her cup him and he’s hard, straining behind his trousers, closing his eyes at her touch. “You won’t have to beg for anything, except mercy.”

Something moves behind her desk and she darts her eyes over.

Wesley is waking up, shaking his head and rolling over onto his knees, gesturing for her to keep quiet.

She blinks and keeps her eyes on Angel, praying, praying he won’t notice, won’t hear as Wesley stands –

Angel lets her go suddenly and straightens to his feet, turning to face the ex-Watcher –

Wesley screams bloody murder, shoulders tucking down as he rushes forward.

It takes Angel by surprise, and when he tries to block the other man, she reaches out and trips him, Wes catching him around the waist at the same time and driving him back into the elevator shaft.

Angel goes down with a roar while Wesley grabs the wall to keep from tumbling after, and she surges to her feet, rushing over to peer down into the space.

He’s quiet, arms thrown out over his head like she’s seen him do a hundred times when he’s asleep, eyes closed.

Wes catches her around the waist as her legs give out, and they hold onto each other tight, shock giving way to relief so sharp, it hurts.

She promises Wes she’ll never call him a sissy again when he can’t open her water bottle, and he laughs and says thank you, then gasps through the pain of his broken ribs.

Together they slide down the wall and rest.


She never tells Wesley how Angel entertained himself while he was out cold, and he never tells her what was said before she got to the office.

When Angel wakes up from his chemically induced bliss, chained to his bed like a pet dog that went rabid, Cordelia is sitting in a chair by his side, eyes tense and anxious.

He can’t look at her, looks past her instead.

“You know I’d-I’d never-“

“I know,” she replies.

She gets up and walks away without another word.


He stares at her bandaged hand for a week after, and she tries not to wonder if he’s remembering the taste of her blood.

Mostly she succeeds.



Posted August 11, 2015 by califi in Complete

Angel, Hear My Cry.   Leave a comment

Title: Angel, Hear My Cry
Author: Samsom
Rating: N-17
Content: C/A
Summary: Cordelia looks to Angel to help her move on…
Spoilers: Set after Lovers’ Walk, BtVS s3.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: Nothing Fancy, GT and anybody who wants it.
Notes: Dedicated to Starlet2367 and based on her prompt “Sunnydale-era Cordy and Angel make out in the back seat of the Plymouth”.
Thanks/Dedication: Special thanks and general adoration goes to my beta, Damnskippy, for holding my hand and telling me when something just doesn’t work.
Feedback: Always welcome.

It doesn’t matter how they got here –


Maybe it does.

Maybe she’d say that she went to the Crawford Street Mansion to talk to Angel, to commiserate about Buffy’s dumping him for the twentieth time since he got back from hell.

But it would be clear to anyone with eyes that she went there for something else.

Maybe to feel good about herself.

Or, to do what she wanted, without thinking about the consequences. Consequences, of course, having no place in the decisions horny teenagers make.

This is something she’s just recently learned.

And she’s been thinking a lot about Angel since she woke up in the hospital.

Specifically, of kissing Angel.

Maybe it was a dream, or maybe it’s something she’s always wanted but pushed down for the sake of something real with Xander.

And everyone knows how that turned out.

So she dressed in something she thought he’d like – leather the color of merlot, lipstick and blush to match – and drove out to the mansion.

Awkwardness reined as she stood in his doorway. He looked surprised, and not pleasantly so, while she jabbered on and on, filling the silence with nothing observations and half lies.

She’d wanted to kiss him.

And what if she did? It didn’t last more than a second – in the dark, cold space he called his kitchen, trying to get her a glass of water. Only the sink hadn’t been turned on for months, maybe years, so that the only thing that came out was brown and slushy and he looked like he’d been caught using the wrong fork, standing there with that half filled glass, blinking in the dark.

Her mouth pressed against his neck for the barest space of a second while her heart jack hammered in her chest. Even her stitches hurt, throbbing like a warning.



Salty, just like she’d always thought.

He froze, eyes darting as she watched through her lashes, mouth pressing into his skin as she breathed through her nose.

And then he’d pulled away, pushed her back by her shoulders. Gently, with shaking hands, and mumbled that it was time for her to go.

And even though she wanted to run, there was a bigger part of her that wanted to try harder, to push back. So she asked him how many times he’d been dumped since she woke up in the hospital. How many more before he called ‘time’ and walked off the field?

He didn’t like that, threw her a dirty look, and told her to leave, and turned his back on her.

His wife beater t-shirt stretched tight over his shoulders, and she’d seen his tattoo playing peek-a-boo. She’d always wanted a tattoo. Something on her lower back. But she’d always been too afraid of her father’s reaction.

And surely her mother would climb into her sick bed and not come out for three months.

It seemed better to wait.

She reached out to touch his and he spun around again, looking a little desperate.

Get out, he’d ground out from between his teeth.

She opened her mouth, maybe to tell him no, maybe not, but that’s when the vampire goons rushed in, through the back door that led to the garden. Angel was knocked out and she was trussed up with no regard for her dress or the stitches in her side.

Pain bloomed and everything went dark.


It turned out the Mayor was not fond of Angel’s interference with trying to get Spike dusted, and sent minions of his own after him.

When she woke up she found that they had thrown Angel on top of her on the plush carpet of a very nice office, her dress riding up so that she felt the rasp of his trousers against her stocking-clad thighs, and to the sound of expository posturing by the goons.

She wondered why she made such a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Trying to save her boyfriend’s life had ended with being impaled on a rebar, with no peril in sight, and then taking a chance had landed her in the middle of the bad guy’s office building.

But before self-pity had taken serious root in her mental ranting, Angel managed to roll over on her to where his hands were out of sight. In just a few seconds, while their guards had their backs turned, Angel got free by wiggling out of the knots. Unfortunately, or fortunately, his hands were against her mound and every twist and pull made his knuckles brush harder against her, until her clit began to throb.

He had pretended not to notice, even though she knew he had, and she’d gone flaming pink from her chest to her forehead in response. It added a lot to his need to get free and in a few, cringe-worthy seconds, his hands were loose.

Knocking out the undead morons took less time, and then they were alone. Grabbing her in a fireman’s carry, he lugged her out over his shoulder, down the hallway while she tried not to scream from the way her rebar wound stretched and pulled.

He’d stopped briefly to set her down and untie her when she dug her nails into his back, and then grasped her hand and led her down various hallways that could have been a maze for all she knew. Twice they’d been interrupted by another goon and twice Angel had risen to the occasion by dusting them while she stood back and panted through the ribbons of pain whipping around inside of her.

She’d wondered briefly why he always needed to be saved by Buffy, if he did that well on his very own, when he opened a door that led to a stairwell.

His hand had engulfed hers, and she stared at her merlot-colored nails, wiggling them in his just to see if he might notice.

He hadn’t.

Instead he led her down three flights of stairs, before opening a heavy door marked with a red EXIT sign.

They were in the parking garage.

Just when she thought they were home free, voices sounded in the distance. Angry voices spitting words between fangs.

They began to run, Angel holding tight to her hand, until they found a convertible. A 1967 Plymouth GTX, if she remembered her cars.

They jumped in, and she had looked frantically over her shoulder as the voices came closer, telling him to hurry, hurry, hurry, while he hotwired the engine.

Finally it roared and Angel shifted into reverse.

Squealing tires against the smooth concrete made a noise that sounded like nails scraping a chalkboard as they shot out of the parking garage going nearly fifty.

Cordelia hung onto the dashboard as they sped down the empty street.

She had thought he’d take her back to the mansion, where her car was and where she could start to forget the disaster she called her love life, but when they passed the turn, it was clear he had somewhere else in mind.

It made sense. If the Mayor knew where he lived, he wasn’t safe there anymore.

That’s what she thought he had been doing.

Instead, Angel had gone two miles outside of town, to where the woods ended and the vineyard estates began.

He turned left sharply and propelled the car a few hundred yards into a line of trees, on an old dirt road that had led to a farmhouse. When they stopped, he’d climbed out of the car and rounded the front.

She had watched him, oh so confused because he hadn’t said a word to her, as he came over to her side and yanked her door open.

Pulling her out, he grabbed her jaw and pushed her against the car, bringing her chin up so that he could fit his mouth over hers.


So now here they are, in the backseat of Angel’s stolen convertible. Flat against the leather upholstery with Angel back on top of her.

She has to remind herself to breathe, in and out, but his fingers are under her three hundred dollar skirt, so she forgets every few seconds, until the need for oxygen overcomes her need for him.

He told her this wasn’t happening, with his fingers dancing across her clit, that when they went back to Sunnydale they had to forget this.

She would have agreed to anything right then, with his nails scraping along the ridge of her clit, but as it happens she knows he’s right and nods in agreement.

He whispers ‘good girl, good girl’ with his hand pressing against her cunt and his tongue swirling in her mouth.

She never thought about it as a cunt before, but that’s the only word that she can think to call it now, with Angel. It doesn’t feel dirty or sleazy.

Xander had never gotten further than the tops of her thighs, although she’d always wanted him to go further, felt the need for more. But it had never seemed like the right time, she’d still been unsure that it would last.

She had gotten to the point of thinking that maybe they did have a chance, right before Spike kidnapped him.

Angel brings her back by slipping a finger deep into her, and she breaks the kiss, gasping. She opens her thighs wider, wanting him there, all of him, greedy like a little girl with her first taste of candy.

Pushing on his chin, ignoring his panting mouth begging for another kiss, she lifts her head and licks his Adam’s apple, swirling her tongue and nipping at him. He’s still salty, slightly stubbly, and it feels good against her tongue. Her nails grab at his chest, raising his t-shirt to feel his skin.

His hands dig under her ass, lifting her against his erection and grinding hard against her sweet spot. Her skirt rides up to the point where she can feel the cold night air against her ass, and it seems to be just the right contrast. Her body is throbbing hot and ready to burst, and she wraps her legs around his waist as he hooks a hand under her knee, raising her to just the right level and pushing down on her.

Frottage, she thinks. Thanks to Xander’s underground comics collection, she knows it’s called frottage.

And it’s going to make her come.

The stars behind his looming shoulders are twinkling in the black sky, sharing her secret thrill.

He kisses her again as she keeps grinding, just the right amount of pressure, until, just until, she pushes up hard.



Until the stars expand and blanket the blackness with glowing white.

Her head jerks back, all the way on her neck, as she comes, pupils dilating to take in the white sky and Angel’s face staring down at her. It wrings from her everything and she surrenders to it, wanting it to last forever, twisting and straining under the power of his hands and her own body.

When it burns off it leaves her wrung out, limp and pliable.

Angel doesn’t wait. Pushing and lifting her, finally hauling her into a semi-sitting position, he kneels on the floor of the backseat and pulls her skirt off, breaking the zipper.

She winces at the rough handling, her stitches getting pulled once too often, and he freezes.

“Are you okay?” he asks as his eyes dart up to her side, where her hand is pressing. She nods, thinking it’s almost comical with her knees next to his ears, but she can’t laugh because she’s too busy wondering what he’s going to do.

She doesn’t wait long to find out.

He takes a second, a bare second, to stare at the damp spot on her underwear, before pulling them off next.

Then he drapes her legs more fully over his shoulders and fastens his mouth over her cunt, tongue pushing her wet clit against her pubic bone.

She comes again, almost immediately, the feel of his tongue against her most sensitive flesh almost too much to bear. When the flurries fade, she has no energy left so she lays still and lets him do what he wants, watching compliantly.

Eyes on her, he nudges her clit with his nose, delving into her secret center and coaxing out the salty brine.

She thought he only drank blood.

She was wrong.

Fingers playing lightly in his hair, she watches him watch her, and when there’s nothing left but another, weaker, orgasm, he moves back onto his haunches.

Staring at her.

She’s wondering what he’s thinking, with his wet face and pensive eyes.

“I want to fuck you,” he whispers, making it sound slightly less painful than walking over hot coals.

Her hair is down, a victim of the night’s adventures, and her top is rucked up and splayed, exposing her black silk bra.

She arches slightly, and his eyes wander over to her breasts with their hard nipples.

“Then fuck me. We both know you won’t lose your soul.”

She tries to sound unaffected, but it hurts. Not nearly like a rebar through her body, more like a splinter.

The sting is sharp, hard.


She pushes it back with all the ruthless pragmatism she got from her father, buries it deep before it threatens to become Something.

Angel moves back between her legs, and wraps his arms around her waist, forcing her tender cunt back up against his still hard cock.

She winces against the too sharp sensation, but he ignores it, pulling on her hips, angling her ass over the edge of the seat and unbuttoning his pants with a lascivious grace that reminds her of how old he is. How often he must have undressed women the backs of carriages before ripping out their throats.

When she feels the hard bar of his cock against her thigh and experiences a moment of panic, he sees it in the flaring of her eyes and smiles, a curve of his lip that puts her in mind of things that scurry into dark corners, away from the light of the sun.

Then she can’t think at all because he’s rubbing his cock against her cunt, making her ride the underside before inserting just the tip. He repeats this movement over and over until she’s squirming hard, so wet she’s dripping onto the seat below, head thrown back

He’s going to kill her. Her heart will stop in her chest. She feels the pressure climbing into the red, like a line that can’t be crossed, feels it happening as though his fist is around her heart and her cunt and all he has to do is keep squeezing

Squeezing and squeezing…

She spasms and makes a sound like she’s dying, arching back against the seat as though she’s surrendering to the angels of vengeance.

He rears back and sinks as deeply as he can into her body, catching her orgasm along the length of his cock, riding her wave and then coming on the heels of it, pumping into her everything that didn’t get scalded away in hell.

She captures his hands and twists their fingers together, kissing him with all her desolate pain, tasting his bitter self loathing in return.

She holds onto it for as long as she can, milking him with her body, unwilling to break the connection and be alone again.

But eventually, like a storm that blows itself out, it ends, slowly, with his softening cock falling out of her. With the eventual slowing of her breath, her heartbeat, even the wind outside, slowing through the trees until she can hear an owl calling out its lonely warning.

She forces herself to break their other connection, untwisting her fingers and letting her hands fall away from him, climbing back into her aching, wet body.

She opens her eyes to the quiet, and sees his face close to hers.

He’s staring at her, wonderingly, eyes black like the sky beyond his head.

“I think,” he stutters and clears his throat, kneeling back on his heels. “There’s more than one way to lose a soul.”

She doesn’t answer. She only pulls herself up, into a sitting position.

The effort forces his come out of her, and his eyes drop, nostrils flaring.

“No,” she whispers.

He swallows, and holds her stare.


Later, he drives her home and she tells him that she’ll keep her promise.

This never happened.

The outfit, from Dolce and Gabbana, is ruined. Rips and stains, like some refugee from a frat party.

She strips it off and stuffs it in the back of her closet, resisting the urge to hold the material to her nose and search out any traces of him he may have left.

Then she takes a shower and washes away the rest.

When she climbs into bed, she does so mindful of the new aches and odd pains that are different from the rebar wound.

That one feels like its healing.



Posted August 11, 2015 by califi in Complete

A Deeper Burn.   Leave a comment

Title: A Deeper Burn A Darkness Within Fic
Author: samsom
Rating: N-17
Category: Angst to smut
Content: C/A
Summary: Cordelia’s feelings for Angel are driving her crazy.
Spoilers: S2-3
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: Please ask first
Notes: I always like writing a more assertive, fully aware Cordy, so I did it again. Oops.
Feedback:Is always a rush.

Angel walks across the lobby of the hotel, beaten and bloodied from his last fight to the death, and Cordelia’s eyes follow him, sweeping from head to foot, taking in the damage as she waits to minister with her ointments and bandages.

There is a feeling in her belly, low and heavy, a buzzing hum that steals her breath.

He settles on the couch, and waits patiently, and she is reminded of a pet wanting a master’s touch.

She keeps the gloves off this time, and touches with her bare hands, cleaning the wound with slow wipes of the cotton, smoothing over his shoulder as her other hand clasps his other shoulder, holding him steady through the burn of the alcohol.

He grunts and stiffens, and she tightens her fingers on his skin, digging just a little with her nails.

She isn’t sure if she’s trying to take the pain away or add to it.

His skin is cool and dry, pale marble that stretches over muscle and sinew. The tattoo on his back undulates with his movements, like a ribbon of silk cloth under a clear stream, and she is distracted by the dance, reaching back with her free hand to smooth her palm over the griffin.

From there, it’s a slow journey up the path of his spine, her fingers brushing each vertebra firmly.

Angel stills entirely.

Wes and Gunn are standing nearby, cleaning weapons and cataloging the monster’s destruction at the hands of their employer.

Quiet movements, hidden under the cover of healing hands.

She takes her fingers and traces lightly the shadow created by the curve of his spine, at the top of his shoulder blades, until he stands up abruptly and swings to face her.

His face is a question, eyes telegraphing his confusion.

She kneels back on her bent leg and stares up at him, letting him see the black desire that clamors behind her eyes. She wonders what he’d do, what he’d say, if she told him how much she desired him just like he was, bloodied but unbeaten – the demon laying just under the thin veneer of his soul.

He goes down to the training room when they leave and works his aggressions out on the bag. She knows this because she came back one night to retrieve her forgotten keys, and followed the low light and grunts down the stairs, watching as another side of Angel emerged. A side she hadn’t seen since Russell Winters tried to kill her the first night of their renewed acquaintance.

She took the image home with her, wrapped it around her aching body and it stayed with her the rest of the night, robbing her of sleep and leaving a deep groove of desire not easily assuaged.

Now the burn is unbearable and she needs him.

He stands over her, pants tightening around his hardening cock, taking in the image of her kneeling in front of him.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.” He whispers, eyes steady on her.

“You don’t know me at all,” she responds, just as low, just as dark.

It’s true, he’s never looked.

He couldn’t afford to.

If he looked at her, he would see a desirable woman, beautiful and strong and unwavering in the face of evil and unbearable pain. He chose to see his friend and confidante instead, and the desirable woman lived only in his fevered dreams, stayed with him as his hand gave him the only relief gypsies would allow him without the risk of his soul, and left when he descended the stairs each day.

“I can’t,” he whispers in a strangled tone.

All she hears is ‘I won’t.’

Disappointment is a bitter taste in the back of her throat.

She gets up and faces him.

“I want you,” she says up into his face, low and fierce. “But I won’t beg.”

The image of her begging him nearly sends him crashing to his knees with the lust that slams him but he stands against it, looking at her with a firm conviction he doesn’t feel.

“Goodnight, Cordelia.”

She gets up and turns to gather her things, calling out her goodnight to the others without looking at any of them, and Angel has to stop himself from following her out the front door.


The club was a mistake.

The dress, though a good idea at first, is a mistake in the end.

The men are hot in that superficial LA way, perfectly coiffed, smelling a little too good and dancing attendance on her.

She doesn’t want their empty compliments. They don’t know her, her dreams or desires.

Angel knows her, but doesn’t want her.

Or maybe he does, but enough.

She says yes when she’s asked to dance, letting the pounding rhythm take her away, letting hard bodies wash around her and pretend it’s one hard body, one fearsome face.

And then when she opens her eyes, he’s there, standing in the sea of moving bodies like a boulder in the middle of an undulating ocean.

Angel, watching her.

Her body slows, responding to him in a way she is helpless against, limbs and hips moving for him. Her partner takes that for an invitation meant for him and grabs her hips, moving up behind her.

Angel moves and though she can’t see his face in the shadowed blue light of the nightclub, she knows he’s looking at the other man.

She understands then – he wasn’t following her. She remembers the call she made to Wesley earlier.

Of course.

Protector Angel.

She turns from him and moves up against her partner’s body, hooking hands around his shoulders, and dances with him.

Hands tighten around her hips, and he follows her lead.

Their hips are short of grinding together and Angel’s eyes burning into her back set off a motion in her she’s never indulged before. The stranger in front of her practically pants into her face, leaning closer so he can nuzzle her neck.

Hot lips against the flesh over her pulse is what finally sets off warning bells, the rush of air behind her signaling Angel’s limit with the display she is making.

Another set of hands on her hips tighten painfully and she’s pulled back, out of range.

Angel is struggling fiercely not to unleash his fury on the other man, reminding himself in a dim voice that she was just using whoever was at hand.

But another man was touching what he wants for himself, and that tugs at his vampire’s innate sense of possession.

The man makes a noise of protest, a long line of drinks emboldening him to face Angel, and moves up to stand in his face.

Angel itches to shove him back, beat him down, but breathes through the urge.

“Walk away, friend.”

The threat is implied but evidently the man doesn’t understand, beginning to reach around Angel to take Cordelia’s wrist in his grip.

Angel vamps before he can stop it.

“Don’t do it.”

Paling in the face of something he doesn’t understand, Cordelia’s dance partner sobers up enough to turn and run away.

He spares the man a glance before turning back to Cordelia, vamp face melting back into his regular features, but he’s still pissed off.

Taking her wrist himself, he tugs her after him, leading her from the lights and noise, towards the back entrance.

Cordelia goes, but only because she doesn’t want to make a scene and get kicked out. That would be one more humiliation on top of the one she is currently feeling, having Angel act as a father and running off her ‘date.’

When they are in the alley, he strides to his car, pulling her after until he can shove her against the hood.

He tries to say something but there aren’t words for how he’s feeling. He knows she was out because he rejected her, knows that all the reasons he did reject her will never go away, but he can’t bear the thought that she might go elsewhere to find what she wants.

“Nice girls don’t fuck strangers on dance floors.”

Her eyes widen at his words and tone and her hand flies before she thinks about it, slapping him as hard as she can with the arm she used for sword training.

The crack against his flesh is more satisfying to her than anything else she can think of at the moment.

“Pull your morals up from the sixteenth century, Angel. It’s the twenty-first, and I can fuck whomever I choose.”

He grabs her arms and pulls her close, breathing into her face like a dragon, forgetting his caution.

“Then fuck me.”

His mouth slams down on hers; thrusting his tongue into the warm cavern of her mouth with all the fierce possession he’d been holding back.

One hand cupping the back of her neck, he arches her over the hood of his car, shoving her legs apart and grinding himself between her legs. The skirt is ridiculously short, and easily shoved up her thighs.

His other hand slides down under her ass, pulling her hips up into his rhythm as he plunders her mouth.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulling up into his embrace and kissing him back with all the passion she’d been holding back.

Teeth over lips, biting and sucking, she exhibits a desire that stuns him.

Perfumed woman, beautiful Cordelia.

He pulls back and she tries to follow, making a protesting noise of denial.

He stills her, gazing down into the dark dilation of her hazel eyes, and whispers pleadingly.

“Fuck me, Cordelia.”

Eyes flaring wide, she sees his love for her.

She pushes him back and slides off the hood, and he backs up willingly, the animal in him stilled by the acquiescence in her touch.

She takes his wrist and leads him over to the side of the car, opening the door and urging him into the backseat. He gets in, and she follows, straddling his hips as he settles himself back against the opposite side.

She grips him with her thighs and leans down, taking another long wet kiss. He palms the back of her head and urges her closer, and she lets him, mouth opening wider because she can’t get enough of him, never will, wants to drown in him and disappear.

Reaching down, she unbuckles his belt and pulls the zipper down, the sound breaking up the damp heat of their breath, and he breaks off and looks up at her as she slides her hand in and grips him, squeezing his eyes closed at her touch.

He doesn’t breath, never has to, but it helps to control his desire as it steadies him. He needs it now because she’s finally touching him, and it’s better than he’d ever imagined, lying in his bed, trying to recreate the feeling under his covers.

He cages her ribs with his hands and slides them up under her shirt, pulling off the inconsequential material, her bra right after, so he can palm her breasts, squeeze the nipples between his rough fingers.

Desire spikes through her and she leans her head back, feeling his touch everywhere. She promised him once, to follow him into hell if he needed her, but being this close to him, she knows she’d fight for his soul with her last breath, feeling her love like a star bursting in the heavens.

He pulls her down again with one hand on the back of her head, keeping his other on her breast and she pulls her prize from his pants. Stroking up and down the length while cradling it against her wet heat elicits the most amazing sounds from his throat, and they vibrate against her mouth.

She reaches down with her other hand as he supports her, and moves her panties aside, adjusting him and slipping down the length slow and easy, wanting to cry from the pleasure of it.

“Angel.” His name is a ragged cry against his lips, and he responds by kissing her silent, moving her up and down in a well known rhythm he felt as if he were experiencing for the first time.

Then there is silence, broken only by the sounds of her breathing and their kisses. Angel is silent, so caught up in the pleasure of making love to Cordelia that he has to clamp down hard inside, to keep himself anchored against the fulfillment he feels in her arms.

Pulling his shirt apart, she palms his chest, running her fingers over his tight nipples and leaning down to kiss his neck.

That ignites him all over again and he grabs her hips as she sucks at his skin, thrusting hard and fast up into her body as his eyes widen next to her face, back arching up with every nip of her teeth and sweep of her tongue.

She feels the orgasm building between her legs, her clitoris tightening and tingling with every thrust inside her, feeling the sweat pool at the small of her back and between her thighs clamped hard against him.

She bites him hard as it bursts and washes over her, and she goes down under a sea of overwhelming feeling, straightening and arching back against the pull, wringing every convulsion before feeling the next.

Her breath trembles deep in her throat, and she hears him shouting as he comes, just beyond the connection of their bodies, his hoarse cry like a triumphant confirmation of what he feels for her.

Then she can’t hear anything, can’t hold herself up as she collapses against his chest.

For a long time she lies still, reveling in everything from the sweat from her body to the trembling of his.

She smiles weakly against him, and licks his skin, feeling a sense of feminine satisfaction that comes from bringing a fearsome creature like Angel to a trembling mess underneath her, resisting the urge to giggle.

There would be time for teasing later, and she’d just laid fresh sheets on her bed that morning.

Time to take him home.



Posted August 11, 2015 by califi in Complete

Spinning in Infinity.   Leave a comment

Title:: Spinning in Infinity (ST Halloween Ficathon)
Author: Chatty (liz)
posted: 11/2008
Rating: PG
Disclaimer:: Not mine. Just like to poke ’em and make ’em squirm every once in a while.
Summary: No such thing as a night off. (I know, it’s a terrible summary, I’m sorry! )
A/N: Better late then never? I wanted to write great Halloween adventures and mystery, but this is what came out. Should fit in after Hearthrob. Hope you enjoy!

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The ship’s hull gleams gunmetal gray in the moonlight, and in her entire life of creepiness, this may just take the cake. It practically screams ‘Do Not Enter’, and yet here they are, preparing to do exactly that. The night air is sharp and briny and the cold winds streams her hair out behind her, tickling her neck. She jumps, on edge.

Angel clears his throat, a subtle reminder to keep still and quiet. For a moment she envies him, able to stride in to any situation without the slightest hesitation. His back looms large in front of her, and she hefts her own short ax, testing its weight. He’s already warned her about being careful, a silent eyebrow raise to silently remind her not to screw up. Not that she’s about to. It’s almost Halloween and she’s actually got a party invite, the first decent one to come her way in months.

Sure, it’s not red carpet and paparazzi, but she’s heard the host is Joel’s Silver’s secretary’s cousin and that is almost as good. There’ll be agents there, and producers and casting directors. It’s the next step to being discovered, and it’s just in time. She can almost see it now: Cordelia Chase, actress. Oscar Nominee. Walking down the red carpet draped in diamonds and Balenciaga. Or maybe Gaultier. Something gorgeous and totally couture and she’ll smile and wave and maybe grant a few interviews amid the bright photograph flashes.

Angel clears his throat and her dream dissolves away. He’s got that impatient, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ look with his shoulders all hunched up and face all annoyed.

It backfires. She has to bite back a giggle, because she’s actually relieved to have him back, him back, not some grieving shadow of her friend, but her broody, grumpy, vamp ex-boss.

Except it is all a little different. She doesn’t want to think about it, but she knows it.

He is walking away from her, utterly silent and focused. It’s follow or be left behind, and she knows which one to choose. She follows, lugging her axe and trying to peer through the darkness. Jittery nerves prickle her back, neck, arms; perhaps because she’s hunting with Angel again after his months of absence, or maybe because they’re on a deserted dock just before Halloween, with only a dingy streetlamp and a tiny sliver of moon for light.

Either way, she wishes she were home. Home, with her doting ghost and a scalding hot bath to soak away the vision pain that won’t stop throbbing behind her eyelids.

Angel stops so suddenly she runs into him. He huffs a little, glancing down at her with another pointed frown. She winces guiltily and smiles up at him in silent apology. He gestures to the gangplank, if it can even be called that. It looks old and decrepit, but that doesn’t stop Angel from crossing it easily and leaping the foot of space from its end onto the deck.

He makes it look easy. It isn’t. The gangplank bobs with the water’s movement, and her leap is just a little short. There’s a terrifying moment of falling, complete with a half-shriek of fear. Then Angel catches her in mid-air, hauling her onboard with a silencing hand over her mouth and a strong arm wrapped around her waist. Her heart is racing, filling her own ears with echoes of racing blood and fear, and she thinks for a moment that he must sense these also.

Does it thrill him? Deep inside, does his demon twist in greedy hunger? Months ago, she wouldn’t have worried as much, but maybe Angel is different now. Or maybe she just knows him a little better. She knows now that it’s not just Angelus that is capable of cruelty, but Angel as well, and that awareness burrows deep inside and lurks in her mind.

He raises a single finger to his mouth, the universe sign of silence, and his fingers slip to clasp her wrist and keep her near. She should pull back, keep her distance, but it is so too late for that, so instead she draws closer to him. The dark presses in, and if she shuts her eyes, they’re hiding in the sewers again, she’s pressing close to him as the tunnels rumble and shake and a sicko vampire hunts their every move.

The fight is over nearly before she realizes that it has started. The demon is slick and slimy, smeared with sea foam and dripping hungry drool from each sharp, pointy tooth. The tentacles are the worst, uncoiling and striking in mere seconds, and the force of a blow is enough to set her skin aflame and light stars sparkling in her pain-darkened vision.

She hears Angel grunting, and she can still move fast enough to swing her ax through another tentacle as it comes whipping her way. But it is Angel’s sword that hacks through the demon’s head, sending it tumbling as the body flails, keens, collapses into a bloody pile at her feet.

Her face is still throbbing, burning actually, the pain so intense it steals the breath from her lungs. She presses her hand against it, but it doesn’t help. It’s worsening, in fact, and she stumbles backward, nausea swirling in her belly, pain thick and acrid in her throat.

Angel is there in mere seconds. “You okay?” He sounds almost frantic, pulling her hand gently from her face.

How many times has he asked her that? He still hasn’t figured out that nothing hurts more than his abandonment did, no bruise or bump or demon pregnancy had been worse than those two little words: you’re fired. But they’re past that now, he’s back, he’s Angel again, except better because he’s finally learned to buy presents. The weight of her necklace is heavy and comforting and she tries to think of that instead of the unbearable burn of her skin.

“Fine,” she tries to say, but her voice sounds all whispery and not like her. Angel isn’t fooled, and peers at her intently.

“Did it hit you?” he asks, and talking would take too much energy so she nods instead.

He curses, whispered but vulgar enough to startle her into awareness again. “There must be some kind of venom in the slime. Hold still.” Moments later, something wet and clammy hits her face, and she sucks in a half-startled, half-pained gasp.


He is everywhere, ushering her down to sit somewhere, tilting her face up into the moonlight. The cloth against her face sends rivulets of cold sea water streaming down her face, stinging her eyes. “Hold still,” he says again.


The headlights barely cut a swath through inky blackness; the car is hugging the road’s tight curves, swooping up, over and down until Cordelia’s stomach threatens to revolt. Angel is all Mr. Joe Stoic, hands loose on the steering wheel and foot, apparently, heavy on the gas pedal.

The fact that she can barely even see the road shouldn’t bother her, because he is the one driving and let’s face it: vampires have some pretty decent night vision. Maybe if he would actual talk, she could distract herself, but he is even quieter than usual. And that is saying something.

She’d tried to turn on the radio, but he’d sent a pained glance in her direction and her hand stilled despite her best intentions. But without the distraction of music or conversation, her cheek throbs in a painful beat with her angry, upset stomach. A sudden pang stabs at her, of longing for the bright lights and predictable traffic of the I-5 corridor, of civilization and nearby clean restrooms in case she does the unthinkable and actually loses her dinner.

Angel’s glance flickers off the road and onto her for a quick moment, and his voice is quiet and concerned. “Hey. You okay?”

She tries her best to inject some carefree Cordelia into her answer. “Sure? What’s another venomous demon tentacle in my life?” He makes this quiet little humph, but turns his attention back to the road. Guess that conversation is over.

Flipping down the sun visor, she peers at her face in the mirror. Even in the darkness, she can see the faint outline of an ugly, red welt. And, there goes her fabulous Halloween party plans. Like she can show up at any L.A. party with her face all puffy and disfigured. Maybe in Sunnydale she could have worn a mask, but in L.A., the whole point is to be seen. And she doesn’t want anyone to see her like this.

She can’t even feel disappointed. Sure, supposedly Halloween is supposed to be their one guaranteed night off, but somehow she’d known something would come up. Something always does.

She glances over again, only to find Angel’s eyes on her again. “You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?” She casts her mind back, trying to remember the last thing they’d talked about. “If you weren’t okay,” he clarifies a moment later. “You would, right?”

She shifts uncomfortably, tried not to think of the secret doctor visits, the pile of cat scans and test results, and the mounting stash of empty pile vials under her bed. The leather upholstery creaks under her weight and his gaze hones in.

“Of course I would,” she says, and even to her own ears it sounds not quiet true. But he seems to accept it, or at least he doesn’t continue prying. Course, that’s Angel. Not big with the conversation. But as the car swoops around another bend, sending her stomach up into her throat, she decides to ignore what he wants. She needs to talk. Whether he wants to or not.

“So, Fred is settling in a bit better now,” she starts confidently, and from the half glance out of the corner of his eyes, she guesses he knows exactly what she’s trying to do. But he lets her get away with it. He usually does.

“Seems to be,” is all he says, and she can’t just let the conversation die out.

“She still likes that hiding thing though. I’ve started checking under desks and in cupboards when I walk into a room, otherwise she suddenly jumps out and scares the pants off me.”

His lips quirk in a little smile. “Thought you’d be used to that by now.”

She smiles back, remembering countless times when he’d knocked years off her life by sneaking up behind her, even if he’d thought he was being noisy. Then her smile fades. According to the doctors, she doesn’t have enough years left to be wasting them.

“I’m just saying. I think the girl needs some help,” she says, chattering over the silent fear warring with the not so subtle nausea and pain. “I mean, you’ve seen her room! That’s not exactly sanity personified, Angel. Doesn’t she have anyone? Friends? Family?”

Angel shrugs, shapes his hands idly over the wheel. “She hasn’t said.”

“Maybe you should ask?” Cordy offers, and his jaw tenses.

“Maybe we shouldn’t.” His glance now is firm, and a bit disgruntled. “Maybe she just needs time.”

Her eyes roll up automatically, and she flops back into her seat. “Time isn’t everything, you know.”

He’s silent again, and it’s clear that their conversation is over. Too bad, because now she’s stuck thinking about really time is everything, and she’s really got to figure out someway to extend hers. Because regardless of what the doctors predict and whatever the PTB think, there’s no way she’s just sitting around and waiting for her brain to implode.

She has way too much to live for, and way too much left to do. There are people to help, movies to star in, innocents to save, directors to wow, monsters to slay … and she can do it all. Because she’s Cordelia Chase.

She sucks in a deep breath, tosses her head, and forces herself to relax. She tries staring out of the window, struggling to identify anything in the blackness. She misses her long hair in moments like these. There’s nothing as empowering as flipping her long hair over her shoulder, but she had to go all crazy and hack it off. Maybe she should grow it out again.

A woman’s hair is her crowning glory, her mother used to say, and she’s beginning to understand why.

And then, through the night and amid a sea of blackness, a thin line of glimmering lights sparkle. What the …

“Angel, pull over!”

It’s her ‘I mean business’ tone, and Angel recognizes it. But still, it takes him a few moments to find a suitable spot, and he stops the car slowly, like the baby he thinks it is.

“What is it?” He sounds a little irritated, but Cordelia is too focused on the mysterious lights to really notice. Instead, she slides out of the car, promptly slipping in the loose gravel.

“Careful,” he says, and is somehow instantly there, supporting her arm. “What’d you see?”

“I’m not sure,” she says, and gestures what she now realizes is a long way down. “Lights, somehow.”

He’s watching her intently. “Cordelia, it’s all ocean out there. You probably saw a boat or something.”

She rolls her eyes, hoping his vamp vision is good enough to notice. From the subtle tightening of his arm muscle about her, it is. “It wasn’t a boat, Angel. Hello? I know a little bit about cruising the seven seas. I know what boat lights look like.”

His deep, purposeful – and by the way, completely unnecessary! – sigh makes his leather coat creak. He tries once more to get her to drop it: “I thought you wanted to get home for your party?”

Her pfft is instinctive. “Like I can go to the party like this. No way, buster. Let’s go check those lights out.”

They start walking up the side of the road, each step almost preternaturally loud in the palpable silence. It takes longer than she expects, and her legs are burning by the time she sees the lights again, eerie little flickering dots, bobbing, blinking, flickering in an oddly compelling dance. A stream of fire on what she knows must be ocean, because the crash of waves on rocks is suddenly loud in her ears, echoing in a timeless, primal rhythm.

“What is it?” she whispers, and Angel shakes his head before she even finishes the question.

“I don’t know,” he says. His voice is odd, almost hypnotized, and a sudden frisson of unease zips through her. Angel has always been so predictable, until Darla and her mind games made him go bonkers. Everything happened so fast afterwards – his epiphany, her portal sucking journey, Buffy’s death – and suddenly he is back and supposedly the same old vamp.

But everything is somehow completely different. Part of her hates not knowing what he is thinking. Part of her recognizes that perhaps, she never did know.

So she asks.

His face is creased with thought, and he’s staring out over the water. “I don’t understand,” he says carefully. “I feel …”

He’s probably searching through years of languages for the exact, precise word, but patience has never been her strong suit. She pokes him with a sharp elbow. “You feel what?”

It’s a mistake. He shuts down a little, face carefully blank. “I’m not sure.”

That little nagging feeling of unease blossoms into full on worry. “Is it bad? Is it a sign? A prophecy? Are we all going to die? Again?”

He unbends a little, that massive brow lifting a titch. “I don’t think so.” He sounds wry, and a little amused, and relief unfurls warmly inside her belly. “It just feels familiar.”

Figures. “Familiar like how? Like running into an old friend? Or, like meeting up with someone who wants to stake you in a dark alley?”

He squats down, runs his fingers over the small stones by their feet. “Neither, really,” he says, scooping up a small handful, jiggling them lightly. “It reminds me of a story I once heard. When I was human.”

“So, a long time ago then,” Cordelia says automatically, and his face shines ghostly white in a thread of moonlight when he looks up at her. “It is!” she insists, and he inclines his head in a little nod. He stays down for a moment, looking out over the weaving lights, the dark expanse of water.

“It’s beautiful,” he says finally. “Whatever it is. It doesn’t feel wrong, or unnatural. For some reason, it feels right.”

She can feel her eyebrows climbing her face in disbelief. “Oh-kay,” she says, blowing out an exasperated breath. “What do you know that I don’t know?”

He shrugs again and then rises; the pebbles fall slowly and ping as they hit the ground. “I don’t know.” After a pause, he adds: “Maybe nothing.”

She sighs, already knowing where this is going. But it was her idea to stop the car and investigate, so she can’t really complain about trudging down to take a closer look. Except of course she can.

“You don’t happen to have a pair of trendy yet comfortable hiking boots in that mammoth car of yours, do you? Cause, these,” she gestures to her trendy yet comfortable flats, “are not gonna make it.”

“I’ll buy you another pair,” he says easily, his voice suddenly as warm as honey, and she can’t help but brighten up.

“Okay, let’s go!”

The trip down is worse then she could imagine. There’s no real path, no guard rail, just prickly weeds and sharp stones jutting up out of the darkness. She bruises her hand clutching at one, slipping and sliding down as fast as she can. She tries not to think about the expanse of ocean roaring at her feet, cold and salty and probably deadly if she should fall. She wonders if Angel knows CPR, then remembers that he’s not exactly a breather, which isn’t exactly comforting.

Eventually she settles into a rhythm, leaning into the hill, grasping as rocks as they loom next to her, and her eyes become more accustomed to the darkness. Still, she wishes she’d been going to a gym or a climbing wall or something, because her arms are already throbbing under the strain. It goes on forever, until suddenly her feet touch sand, and she can breathe again, a silent rush of relief.

Angel’s head turns toward her questioningly. Maybe not so silent then.

And then, the sight catches her, steals all her breath away. The ocean is glowing, aflame with light, and she can see each wave swell, surge and then crash down, and her feet hum from the vibration in the sand. It is beautiful and gorgeous and she can barely even find words to describe it. But she tries anyway: “Are those –”

“I think they’re pumpkins,” Angel confirms, and the light is enough for her to see humor shining in his eyes.

“No, not pumpkins,” she corrects archly. “Jack-o-lanterns!” It’s true. They’re too far away to see clearly, and the motion of the ocean makes the exact carvings indistinct, but if she stares hard, she can make out the odd eye; a lopsided grin; a flourish glowing by candlelight.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and suddenly, despite the big shoulders and the cool swishy coat, he looks a bit lost. “Guess we don’t really need to investigate pumpkins.”

She wraps her arms around her waist, hugging herself tightly. “I don’t know … they could be demon pumpkins. With our luck, they probably are.”

He doesn’t answer.

Stepping closer, she puts her hand on his arm, peering up at him. “Are you okay?” and cuts off his inevitable response. “I mean, really? I know you don’t want to talk about it, but instead of communing with monks or living it up in Vegas you got more demons and fighting and I keep expecting to see you brooding and mourning and moping, but you’re not, and not to be rude or anything Angel, but it’s weird. And kinda creepy!”

He sits on some nearby driftwood, stretching long legs out toward the ocean. She’s completely prepared for him to ignore everything she’s just said, but instead, he actually starts talking. “We used to hear stories about the old druids, when I was human,” he says, and she doesn’t mention he’s talking about the wrong thing again. “All these bloody battles and sacrifices, worshiping death in so many ways. When someone especially beloved died, they would wrap the bodies in the softest robes and most beautiful adornments, and float them out to sea on these driftwood rafts.” His hands shape the rafts idly, drawing a picture of the stories until Cordelia can almost see them, pagan and wild, mourning and celebrating, all death and passion and destruction. “Most times, they’d light the rafts on fire, to illuminate the way to paradise,. But sometimes, they would hollow out gourds and light them, and let them float alongside instead.”

He clears his throat a little, ducks his head against the cold briny wind. “I always wondered why the bodies never washed up,” he says, a bit lamely.

She sits next to him, ignoring the uncomfortably cold damp wood. “You miss her?”

Turning to her, he looks directly into her eyes, and she realizes how rarely he does that. “I do. And I don’t,” he says, so quietly the wind and waves nearly snatch the words away. “I always thought I would. But she’s been gone for so long, it’s hard to feel like this is any different.”

“But it is different,” she protests. “This isn’t just gone as in Sunnydale, Angel. And you loved her.”

“I loved her,” he agrees. “But she hasn’t been real. She’s been a dream, a wish, and somehow, I stopped believing. I don’t even know when. And it hasn’t been easy, but it feels—”

“Bearable,” she says. “That’s what you said before. That you could live without her.”

He nods, tilts his head back and lets the whole world rush over his bared throat. “It feels complete,” he says. “That feeling, up there,” he gestures to the road above them, “it was peaceful. Like everything that starts has to end, and that maybe this was her time. She lived a good life. I have to honor that. And you’re right – fighting, the mission – those both honor her.”

They sit a while longer, watching the pumpkins bob on cavorting waves, and when she licks her lips they taste salty. The thought pops into her head and out of her mouth before she can stop it. “Do you think someone is saying goodbye? With the pumpkins, I mean.”

He smiles, full and bright. “No. I think the kids down the beach are celebrating Halloween.”

“Wait, what?”

He laughs a little and taps his ear. “Good hearing.”

“How long have you known?” she says, and if her voice is a little screechy it’s only because she aches all over and there are rocks in her shoes.

“I heard them while we were coming down,” he says. He doesn’t move, but somehow seems the tiniest bit closer. “They’re beautiful,” he says, but he’s not looking at the glimmering pumpkins or even the sparkling stars. He’s looking at her, and her heart skitters nervously until her breath catches in her throat. He probably hears that too, because his gaze flickers away.

She leans comfortably closer to him, and moments later, an arm settles heavily around her shoulders. She’s not sure if he’s drawing her close, but somehow her cheek finds a perfect spot against his shoulder, and even the cold spray of ocean foam feels almost peaceful and nice. She’s not used to this nearness, to him touching her at all unless it’s post-vision.

But then again, Angel is different now. They are all different now.


Thanks to pythia for a great prompt: wistful, coast, jack-o-lanterns! I didn’t do it justice but it was still great fun to write.


Posted August 11, 2015 by califi in Complete

Persephone Lies Dying. 4   1 comment

Title: Persephone Lies Dying. Book 1
Author: Samsom
Pairing: Cordelia/Angelus
Summary: Cordelia is haunted.
Rating: R for disturbing imagery. I hope.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Fox, ME, and Whedon own the characters. I make no profit from this.
Genre: Horror
Notes: Fourth in the Persephone fics. Set in the summer between BtVS s2 and s3. AU after Killed By Death, and a loose sequel to my fic Collatoral Damage


In her dreams, the grave dirt wraps her up like Mother’s arms and Angel smiles.

His shoulders block the sky above them, and she can’t see the stars or the moon.

She can only smell the earth.

Nothing will keep him from her, he says. Not the slayer or the boy, nor the hospitals with their pills and locked doors and bed restraints.

Not even Hell.

It doesn’t matter to him that her skin is dry and her lips are cracked. Her hair is limp and she smells like sickness and death.

Her ribs are like a ladder, and he counts the rungs with loving fingers, smiling gently down into her pale and waning face.

She tries to smile back, the display of rotted and yellow teeth at odds with the blankness of her features.

Madness wears her as its face and he says she’s never been more beautiful.

mo chroi, he whispers.

In the morning they find her in a heap under the open window. Her lips are stained red and her wrists are bruised.

But her smile is as radiant as the sun.


Posted August 11, 2015 by califi in Complete

Persephone Lies Dreaming. 2   1 comment

Title: Title: Persephone Lies Dreaming, Book 1
Author: Samsmom
Summary: Angelus loves Cordelia. To Death.
Rating: R for very dark imagery.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing
Notes: Takes place in the aftermath of my fic Collatoral Lover, AU of BtVS s2 after Killed By Death.


He’s cool on her back, arm draped over her shoulder so she can watch the moonshine turn his skin white like milk.

She’s lying in a grave with him, watched as he dug it with his bare hands, smiling at her with those sharp teeth the whole time.

Her own monster.

He’s wound white orchids in her hair, wrapped them around her wrist and threaded their stalks through her fingers.

He’s says they’re a symbol of her beauty.

Above her eyes, the discarded leftovers lie soaking in the sprinklers, drowning in water and dirt while she watches.

do you like them?

She nods because she cannot speak.

There are orchid petals in her mouth, tangling her tongue.


When the dawn comes, so do the estate workers.

They find her in the garden, with the roses.


The morning sun shines down on the slayer’s head, turning her hair to spun gold.

She looks up when Xander approaches.

“How’s Cordelia?” She asks.

“Alive. Barely.” Xander’s hatred is like a living thing in his eyes. “They say she’s been cutting herself. It’s the only way they can explain the blood loss.”

“He must have been – it must have been occurring for a number of weeks.” Giles said, slipping his glasses back on.

“You need to kill him, Buffy.” Xander says it again, as if to remind her of her duty.

“I will.” She says.

She shuts her anguish up in a chamber far in the back of her heart, and reconciles herself to the inevitable.


In Her Hands, Six Seeds of the Pomegranate

Posted August 11, 2015 by califi in Complete

In Her Hands, Six Seeds of the Pomegranate. 3   1 comment

Title: In Her Hands, Six Seeds of the Pomegranate. Book 1
Author: Samsmom
Summary: Cordelia is haunted.
Pairing: C/Aus
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to Whedon, Fox, ME.
Notes: Set after my ficlet Persephone Lies Dreaming, the summer before BtVS s3. AU after Killed By Death and a loose sequel to my fic Collatoral Lover. Written in the second person POV.


Before, you shied from shadows, from dark places. You instinctively sought the light, the open spaces. You know, deep in your caveman brain, that it is safest when you can see and feel the sun on your skin.

So it’s a surprise when you open your eyes and realize you’ve been standing on your back lawn in the dead of night, arms wide open as your toes curl in the damp grass. There’s no clock or watch but you know it’s long after midnight, and one terrified glance up to the house tells you all the lights are out.

No one’s home.

You are alone out here, with not even the reflected light of the moon to chase away the pitch dark night.

Dropping your arms, you pull into yourself, feeling the cold as it seeps into your pores like water into the cracked desert floor.

Move, then.


But you don’t.

But you can’t.

The night embraces you, cold and wet, and you shiver.

Something thick and wet slides slowly down the side of your neck and without touching it you know the wound is bleeding again.

It bleeds when you are scared. It bleeds to remind you of the one who took your safety and your light. It bleeds to claim you, over and over, again and again, until you feel his fetid breath again on your neck, his sharp teeth dividing your flesh and drinking your soul.

You shake, on the damp bare grass of your parents’ backyard, and wait for Death to claim you.

You want to ask Him something.

You want to ask Him why he didn’t take you before, why he left you to this half life of shadows in the light with the taste of His blood on your tongue, and the stars spinning in the sky above your head.

And like an answering prayer, a sound comes from the dark woods.

He stares from the shelter of the trees, pale face smiling at you, teeth gleaming like knives.

You open your arms, smiling.

You wake up, screaming.

Persephone Lies Dying

Posted August 11, 2015 by califi in Complete

White Armed Persephone. 1   2 comments

Title: White Armed Persephone, Book 1
Author: Samsom
Summary: Angelus loves Cordelia. To death.
Rating: R for very dark imagery.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Notes: *long notes, sorry* This was an idea I had listening to Need to Destroy by THC, a sequel of sorts to Collateral Lover. Cordelia bit Angelus on the mouth and swallowed some of his blood by accident. This series explores what it means to have Angelus inside of her, and how he courts her. Takes place during BtVS s2, and is AU after Killed By Death. There are five ficlets so far.

Sunnydale is just big cemetery, filled with walking corpses.

They just don’t know it yet.

Even the slayer acts as though she’s a part of the living when Cordelia can plainly see she’s not. Buffy belongs to the grave dirt and the blood stains and the dark things that live in the corners of their eyes.

Cordelia sees it all now.

Death follows her home, to school, to the beach. It’s there beside her when she’s kissing Xander in her car, mocking her with a tilted smile and her blood on his lips.

He’s on the bed next to her at night, cupping her face, chilling her skin with his grave-temperature flesh.

He tilts her head, and runs his thumb pads over her jaw line, looks at her without smiling, breathing as though he needed to, and he licks her. God, how he licks her, slow with that cold tongue that makes her shiver in her nightgown.

She pulls his naked torso down on top of her, there in her bed with only the moonlight coming in, letting him slide and fit himself between her legs, tilts her pelvis up until he sighs sweetly, his copper-tinged breath feathering over her face in a caress she can’t turn from.

How can she want to embrace something so cold?

A corpse, really

Skin like the pale marble, hard and ungiving.

She winds her cotton wrapped body around his, feels his hipbones on the insides of her thighs and lifts her chin so he can reach her mouth. Deep kisses like drowning in ice water, hands caging her wrists to the bed.

She’s full of him, he’s inside of her.

He promises it will always be so.

Blood for blood.

She lets herself go under completely, until he fills her lungs and drowns in her skin.

Persephone Lies Dreaming

Posted August 11, 2015 by califi in Complete