Archive for October 30, 2015

You Promised   Leave a comment

Title: You Promised
Author: Samsom
Posted: Dec 06
Rating: R-N-17
Category: Angst. WARNING: character death, eek!
Content: C/A, Angelus
Summary: Cordelia made a promise once.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: GT/ST/AO, anywhere else, let me know where.
Notes: This was written in the second person. It’s my first attempt at it so be warned. Any mistakes are mine since it’s unbeta’d and written when I should have been sleeping.
Feedback: Always appreciated

You promised.

Once when there was hope, when the fight didn’t seem all that hard and the visions weren’t killing you yet.

One twilight up on the roof, the first honest talk you’d had since Doyle went and did his stupid, heroic stunt that left you grieving and cursed.

You promised, and you meant it.

But you didn’t know how much he’d mean to you. How could you, when all you’d ever done was make yourself number one?

His amazing smile that made you feel like you’d rip heaven apart to see it every day. The way he fought for every soul your visions brought to his attention, the insane things he’d do to save a life.

The way you thought he was the biggest dork ever after you found his Manilow collection.

The way you hurt for him whenever his past crept up and pulled him down into the abyss of his own guilt.

All of that and a thousand other things made it harder to hold onto the spirit of that promise, and you prayed to whoever was still listening that you’d never have to make that decision.

And then you wake up one night to find him standing at the foot of your bed.

He smiles in a way that leaves no doubt, and you hear someone begin to scream.

You realize it’s you.

His eyes close and you know he’s savoring the beginning of your pain, the anticipation of more.

He’ll torture you and kill you. He’ll torture and kill your friends. He’ll go back to Sunnydale and finish what he couldn’t do before. He’ll kill women and children and no doubt he’ll try and end the world. Again.

And others will die to stop him.

And then he’ll die.

So you stop screaming, and you ask him how it happened, and while he rolls his eyes and tells you how wasn’t important you sit up and let the covers slip down.

You know Angel wanted you, and you watch his attention narrow now, the demon responding the way the soul wouldn’t. You know the t-shirt you wear to bed is as tight as it needs to be for him to see what you want him to see.

You listen to him call you a tease and you watch him come closer.

His hands on your body are cold but they are his hands and his touch and if you close your eyes a little, look away a little, you can pretend.

He slides the blankets off slowly and covers you with his weight. You stifle a cry, never realizing until now just how much you wanted to feel him like this.

But never like this.

He purrs and tells you you’re going to be a good ride, and he pulls your yoga pants down and your shirt up, exposing you within the confines of your clothes, trying to draw out your shame.

You could have told him you had no shame to give, no fear.

He unfastens his pants and you feel his erection against your thigh, and it’s as cold as you are. He commands you to look at him and you do, but his face is a blur.

That’s when you realize you’re crying.

He smiles again, but this time there’s a hint of Angel in there, and for a moment you hope, against your own eyes you hope, and then the smile changes and you kill the feeling brutally, before it can shine in your face and give him one more thing to gloat over.

He asks you if this is everything you’d ever hoped it would be as he pulls your underwear off, his blunt nails leaving marks on your thighs, and waits for your answer as if it mattered, as if he genuinely wanted to know.

You say nothing, and he chuckles and bends down for a kiss.

You give it, opening your mouth and meeting his tongue.

He slips between your legs, spreading you wide beneath him.

He slides into you, sinks down to the root, and your body pulls him in, pulls a grunt from his mouth and he laughs with his eyes closed and his head half thrown back, saying that he hasn’t had a willing woman since Darla.

His hand tightens around your wrists, slowly, rubbing the bones together, and you cry against his lips. It’s what he wants, that little bit of pain to build on.

He says this is what he’ll do to Fred when he finds her, what he’ll do to Willow and Buffy and Dawn.

The more he talks, the harder he gets, the more he thrusts. He brings his head down and cuts himself off by devouring your mouth, drawing your tongue into his. He sucks on it, and then he bites, drawing blood.

You groan in pain, the persistent thrust of his hips heavy on your pelvic bone, hot copper exploding on your tongue.

He echoes the sound, drawing back and smiling down at you with your blood staining his lips. Ducks his head and smears the blood all over your breasts as he licks and bites the skin, leisurely thrusting.

He draws his hand down between your bodies and rubs your clit, saying you need to enjoy it more, but really he’s just trying to take something else from you, something Angel never had.

You try and shut his voice out. Imagine Angel’s hand stimulating your flesh, Angel’s body on you and in you. In your mind you see his smile, and the way he used to slide his eyes across yours, trying not to make it mean more than both of you could handle.

You feel yourself getting wetter, slicker, and a red ball of heat circles the base of your spine, building pressure. He looks into your eyes and watches it grow, and you want to shut him out of it, but you know he won’t allow that, and his eyes are the only thing that you have left of Angel, so you gaze back, and try to remember everything you lost.

You wish you could have told him you loved him.

The pressure pulses once, then explodes, and the orgasm washes over you, overriding everything for a few blissful seconds. You can’t help the surrender, Angel has been coaxing it from you for so long, and you can’t help the noise that escapes your lips, helpless and bare.

Through a tunnel you hear him come too, the thing you never shared with Angel, you share with his killer. He buries his face as he empties himself inside your body, his hips thrusting to the last spasm.

Your head is clear by the time he collapses onto you, his hand relaxing the grip on your wrists. Struggling for breath, you pull your hand away from his, palm up on the pillow.

You’re glad you’re the one to do it. You never wanted to, but you promised and its better this way, someone he knows, someone who loves him.

Not a council member who never recognized the difference his soul made.

Dennis floats the stake into your palm and you curl your fingers around the smooth wood, grasping it firmly.

You follow with your arm the trajectory you mapped in your mind and the stake slides through skin and muscle and bone with as much force as you can put behind it.

It’s enough.

His head comes up, and you see his ridges, his teeth.

The flaring shock in his eyes tell you everything. How he never expected this from you, that he never thought you had what it took.

It’s the odd expression of betrayal before his face is swallowed by dust that makes you turn your head to the side, and his ashes settle over you in a fine drift.

You lay there.

Minutes without Angel gather, and add up.

Five minutes.

Then ten.

Another thirty.

You hear cars pass, and a faint pink light peeks through your blinds.

People will wake, and have coffee, and get ready for work.

The day will come, and then night will fall, and then another day will happen.

The long years of your life stretch in front of you, without the center. You wonder what will hold you together, just a collection of limbs and nerve impulses now.

He asked you one night, high on a roof, during the first real talk you ever had.

You promised.

And you kept it.

You move finally, muscles cold and screaming.

The phone is in the living room, and you’ll have to call the others, to let them know.

But first, you’ll take a shower.



Posted October 30, 2015 by califi in Complete

True North   Leave a comment

Title: True North
Author: Samsom
Posted: 11/06
Rating: PG
Category: Romantic Drabble.
Content: A/C
Summary: She’s his true north, his touchstone.
Spoilers: None, but I picture this between S1 and S2, when summer is turning into fall.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Notes: Written in about fifteen minutes, while listening to Alicia Keys, so if it’s rough, this is why.
Feedback: Always appreciated.

He always comes back to her after patrol.

After a night chasing demons and vampires, saving LA one life at a time, dirty and grimy and angry and hot from the sewers and the blood spilling, he comes back to her apartment, looking.

For something.

For the warm crook of her elbow, the soft spot under her ear, and the way she sighs his name and moves with him in the dark of her living room, music leading them, hips swaying and legs brushing.

She tilts her head back and looks up all vulnerable need and soft love and he leans in closer, face right next to hers, breathing in her scent, and her love, her acceptance and her joy.

Hands all over her satin back, tactile sensation bleeding into him, warming him, making him feel alive, soft smell of woman and the thing that makes her like no other woman and he believes if he stays long enough, he’ll be warmed in her fire forever, all he ever needs of love here in his arms and he goes up in a blaze of shimmering desire, his head and senses filled with her and this moment and how well she fits in the curves and corners of his body, and his soul.

Cordelia with her sharp edges and brambly heart found in him something worthy and true and coaxes it out with an easy confidence that leaves him stumbling with awe. She redeems him with her pain, and forgives him with a smile and a touch and he thinks if he lives to see the constellations shift in the sky, that he’ll never find anything else that touches him so deeply and so truly.

So he dances with her, in the dark midnight of her apartment, framed by the harvest moon and the turning trees and the wind rustling through the quiet streets, and is still inside.

And warm.



Posted October 30, 2015 by califi in Complete

Too Close   Leave a comment

Title: Too Close
Author: Samsom
Rating: R
Category: a bit of dark
Content: C & A
Summary: Crap. I suck at summaries – never seems to be enough plot in my stuff to have one. Erm, Angel’s a vampire with vampire senses and he’s been living with Cordy all summer. There ya go!
Spoilers: None. Post TSiLA
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: Please ask
Notes: This fic gave me more fits than I can count, I just hope it turned out the way I pictured it in my head.
Thanks/Dedication:Thanks to Starlet for the nice, encouraging words along with the beta. She’s the best and any mistakes are all mine..
Feedback: Who doesn’t like feedback?.

In a deserted business district off Sepulveda, a figure in black sailed through the air in an endless second of grace, before hitting the pavement with a painful grunt.

Angel rolled to a halt and paused for a moment to collect his wits before pain drove him to his feet and into a fighting stance, waiting.

The demon was overconfident, sure of the kill.

His mistake.

Another few minutes, a few more painful hits, and the demon rolled into the sewer, his head following after.

The vampire turned and managed to make it the few feet to the curb before collapsing in a heap to take stock of his wounds.

A short rest, and then he would go home.


The lights were out in Cordelia’s apartment. Usually, she left a lamp on for him, when she knew he was coming back, but he’d told her he might be out until close to dawn.

Dennis swung the door open, allowing Angel to cross the threshold.

He stopped in the middle of her living room, a light floral scent immediately wrapping around him.

Cordelia’s perfume.

There was a book laid spine up on the side table next to the chair she read in. Some nights, when he knew the memories of her visions got especially painful, she sat and read something light and fluffy, the light of just one lamp shining softly down onto her tense shoulders, a cup of cooling tea next to her elbow.

Angel would stand in the darkened kitchen watching her, helpless, shut out of her pain.

a basket of clean laundry was left on the coffee table, a paddle brush lying on top of the television in the corner.

She was all over the place, bits of Cordelia surrounding him.

And like now, when he could smell the faint salty scent of her arousal in the air along with the perfume she dabbed onto the curve of her neck twice a day. Twice before he’d walked into a cloud of this same fragrance, both times when she thought she was alone.

He turned slowly in the direction of her closed bedroom door.

Soft gasps, so quiet he knew she was under the covers up to her chin, hand dancing beneath the soft cotton pajamas she wore to bed, ever mindful of Dennis, but not of the vampire she’d invited into her home with absolute trust.

He eyed the door, his body gone hard and wanting between one gasp and the next.

He became deaf and blind to everything but the knowledge that slammed him like a stake to the chest, sudden and absolute –

-that Cordelia was touching herself-

-was masturbating.

He moved silently, and then the tips of his fingers were pressing the wood of her door.

Eyes closed, picturing that body flushed pink as her blood rose to the surface of her skin, back gently arched as she reached for the orgasm, and he wanted to be in there with her, hips cradled by her thighs as his hand replaced hers, soft flesh pressing up against the thrust of his fingers, swallowing her cries with his mouth.

The temperature in the hallway dipped to freezing.

Dennis was warning him.

Angel glanced over his shoulder, eyes blind with want, growling his own warning to the ghost.

The lights flickered.

A chair scraped in the kitchen.

The rhythm of her breathing changed, catching suddenly, and Angel pushed away from the door, stumbling blindly back into the living room.

He couldn’t have that. Never could again, or the whole world would pay in blood.

The front door flew open.

“I wouldn’t hurt her, Dennis, you know that.”

The air remained cold.

He strode out of her apartment and into the night air, letting the moonless dark swallow him up.

Behind him, Dennis locked the door and threw the deadbolt.


It was just after dawn when Angel came back.

He opened the front door and walked in, dropping three newspapers onto the coffee table before going to the kitchen.

This time it was the smell of fresh coffee and halzelnut creamer that greeted him.

Cordelia was at the kitchen table, reading a magazine.

She looked up when he walked in, smiling brightly. She was dressed in her cotton pajamas and a baby blue t-top, hair pulled back and up. Her face was freshly scrubbed.

Cordelia in the daylight.

“Hey, what happened to you?” she asked, getting up and walking to the refrigerator. Opening it up, she reached in and withdrew a container of blood, taking it to the microwave for heating. “I thought you’d be back before now.”

Angel took a seat near the wall, shrugging at her question. “Ran into some trouble, got delayed.”

She waited while the blood heated. “And?”

“And what?”

“And what happened, doofus? Are you alright?” The time dinged and she reached in, taking the blood out and coming over to him with it.

“I’m good.”

“Great, I’m glad. Drink up. We’ve got work to do.”

He took the blood and she walked passed him, going out into the living room.

He took the top off the container and sipped the thick liquid, resisting the urge to gulp it down at first taste, resisting the urge to vamp out.

He lost.

“Angel?” Cordelia called from the other room. “What’s with the newspapers?”

He scraped the plastic sides for residual blood with his finger, licking it clean through the fangs that crowded his mouth. “I thought Wes and I would look for office space again today.”

There was a beat of silence and he heard Cordelia sigh. “I guess it’s time, huh?”

Angel sat in the kitchen, staring at the wallpaper over her stove with yellow eyes.

“Yeah,” he said tonelessly. “It’s time.”



Posted October 30, 2015 by califi in Complete

Real   Leave a comment

Title: Real
Author: Samsom
Posted: 30 July 2006
Rating: NC-17
Content: Angel doesn’t have the luxury of being anything more than a friend.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Notes: I’m always writing from Angel’s pov so I thought I’d try to get in Cordy’s head.
Feedback: FB and concrit are always welcome.

Another life and death fight, another dark alley. Thrown against Angel’s body during the death throes of yet another gross, slimy demon, Cordelia becomes suddenly conscious of the hard thigh she straddled as he lay under her, the chest she pushes against muscled and firm beneath her hands, like cool marble.

He hesitated for just the slightest second, hands still on her hips, and an ache flared to life where her flesh was pressed to his thigh. She savors the contact for one long moment before rolling off with a nervous laugh.


Later that night, she wakes up twisted in the sheets with nipples tightened to sensitive points and a damp ache between her legs, some half-remembered dream making her heart trip in her chest.

The next day at work, she sits at her desk and scrolls through the demon database, searching for a particular set of identifying marks for an older case they couldn’t solve. Angel moves past her desk and her eyes track him, doing a slow crawl across his broad shoulders.

Later on, he leans in too close over her shoulder while she points to what she unearthed and she catches the scent of his cologne, and draws in a deeper than needed breath.

He pauses for a beat before continuing his theory.


At three in the morning, Cordelia lies and stares at her ceiling in the darkness of her bedroom. She aches, a throb between her thighs that prevents her from sleeping. She doesn’t really want to touch herself, but can’t think of any other way to gain some relief and finally, she just does.

Five minutes later she orgasms, but it doesn’t satisfy her.


When Angel calls her into his office, she’s reluctant to go but he’s impatient, so she grabs her notebook and pen, praying he won’t be able to sense anything.

Pulling a chair up next to his, she watches as he reads from an old tome, jotting down the appropriate information, but she’s drawn to his forefinger as it keeps his place on the tiny script, watches as it smoothes down the vellum, and wonders suddenly, how it would feel running that same motion down her spine.

She shivers slightly, and he spares a glance at her.

“Everything okay?” He asks, all business.

“Umhmm,” she nods, afraid to speak. He blinks once and goes back to the book.

She wonders what was keeping Wes. There couldn’t be that many old bookstores in LA that carry talisman made from dragons bones.

She doesn’t want to be alone with Angel anymore. She can’t trust her feelings, can’t trust her body to behave within smelling distance of a vampire who can’t have sex.

She gets up, excusing herself to go to the bathroom.


When she comes out, he’s standing right outside the door and she jumps a foot.

“Crap! Angel, you scared me!”

He just looks at her with unblinking, unreadable eyes.

“Cordelia,” he begins, “it’s obvious something’s wrong-“

She ducks her head, not wanting to look at him. She’s frustrated and still aroused from last night’s half assed attempt at self-gratification, and she prays for death because any second he’s going to become aware of the state she’s in, and she’d rather be shoveling shit in a ditch in the worst part of hell than have to see the instant rejection in his face.

Because it wouldn’t be about the curse.

It would be about Buffy and how no one was ever going to compare to her or the soul-stealing sex that she inspired.

“I’m fine.” She smiles at him but he doesn’t buy it, frowning at her like some school teacher who just caught her doing something wrong, but didn’t know what.

“If you need to talk,” he offers.

“Nothing’s wrong Angel. It’s just-“she pauses and thinks, “It’s been a while since I went out with the girls, had a good time. I might call them up, go out clubbing.”

She thought he’d be okay with that, smile and accept her reasoning, but his frown only deepens. He blinks and looks away, and when he glances back, he looks slightly pissed, jaw clenching.

“Have a good time in what way?” He makes his question into an accusation and she doesn’t like the tone of it.

“Well, in the way that you wouldn’t know anything about since you chomped on a gypsy girl back in the powered wig days,” she snaps back. She regrets it instantly, watches his face close up, but doesn’t take it back.

She walks back to her desk without another word.

He doesn’t say anything else to her the rest of the evening.

At nine, she closes her notes and stands up with her purse.

“Wes, I won’t be in tomorrow morning.” She says loud enough for Angel to hear, then leaves before Wes can question her.


She stumbles in the hallway of her building, half drunk on margaritas. She thought it might numb her a little, but the throbbing in her body worsened with each glass. The guys at the clubs were eager to help her with her unspoken problem but she found something wrong with every one of them.

One was too short, and one was blonde. Another dressed too brightly. The last one smiled too much.

When she realized she was comparing them to Angel, she sobered up enough to call a cab home, telling her friends she was partied out.

Now the damn lock kept moving whenever she went near it with the key and she had to steady herself with one hand braced against the wall next to her door because the floor kept trying to pull her down.

A hand clamped over her mouth.

She takes a deep breath to scream but is hauled back against a hard body, another arm clamping across her ribs.

A voice shushes her and it sounds so much like Angel she relaxes in his grip.

But before she can turn in his arms, he’s opening her door and shoving her inside, holding her to keep her from falling.

A kaleidoscope of her walls and furniture spin by and then Cordelia finds herself face down on the couch, her coat stripped from her body in one motion.

She shuts her eyes against the spinning room as big chilly hands run up her legs, smoothing over her stockings and raising the back of her skirt.

There’s a mouth traveling over her shoulder, up her neck to stop at her ear.

“Is this what you went out looking for, Cordelia?”

One hand reaches between her legs and cups her mound. Shock sobers her just a little, warring with the alcohol hazing everything into a dream-like state, but she feels the fingers rub against the cotton of her panties, and it sets a violent fluttering in her womb, uncontrollable, and she feels herself getting impossibly wet before the hand disappears.

Her panties are lowered midthigh and a body slips between her open legs, the hand stealing back up under her pelvis, fingers slicking through her folds, spearing her. Cordelia’s eyes open wide and she rocks against the sensation, hips driving into the cushions as his thumb rubs her clitoris. Another hand scrapes her shirt up, dragging her lace-covered bra with it before cupping one breast, fingers rolling over her nipple, creating a pulling sensation between her breast and clitoris.

His erection rides the cleft of her ass, and she arches into his hardness, thrusting up and then down, feeling the pressure build up in her body, rocketing towards orgasm.

Then his hand comes up from her breasts to her mouth, muffling her throaty moans, and she slips his thumb in her mouth, sucking hard on the skin. She hears him panting in her ear.

The fingers in her cleft work her like an instrument, coaxing her flesh to give up more, spreading her wetness before gliding over her folds, every stroke like lightning striking.

Then it seizes her, breaking like a star bursting, the contractions strong from her clit to her womb, muscles clenching his fingers as she screams into the palm of his hand, dying inside.

He rides it out, rubs her clit in long sweeps to bring her down, calm her gently. The alcohol is pulling her under to a dreamless sleep as he pulls his fingers out of her.

She lifts her head to the side and the last thing she sees before she’s pulled under for the last time is Angel kneeling by the couch, sucking his fingers into his mouth, tasting her as he skewers her with eyes still hungry, still restless.


The next day, Cordelia stays mostly at her desk, feeling the disturbing blend of an achy head and a satiated body.

Thinks it was a dream but then isn’t so sure.

Images assail her, threaten her equilibrium but she fakes it pretty good.

But all the while she listens for his footsteps.

When she comes back from lunch, he’s sitting at his desk, staring at the scroll he stole from Wolfram & Hart.

She clears her throat delicately and he looks up.

“Cordelia, good, come in here and take some notes while Wesley translates. I’ve got a meeting in half an hour with an informant.”

His voice is distant again and she freezes for a second before shaking off the disappointment.

Of course it wasn’t real, she thinks.

He stands and pulls on his coat, pausing as he passes her.

“Is everything okay? Did you have a good night?”

She glances sharply at him, but doesn’t see anything in his face but the concern of a friend.

“Yes, it was good,” she replies punitively as she picks up her notebook and pens, moving to walk around him.

“Good.” He whispers.

The edge of his coat brushes the bare skin of her upper arm.

She shivers but doesn’t look back.



Posted October 30, 2015 by califi in Complete

The Doctor, The Vampire, & Little Blue Boxes   Leave a comment

Title: The Doctor, The Vampire, & Little Blue Boxes
Author: samsom
Rating: R for groping
Category: Romance.
Content: C/A
Summary: Cordelia & Angel follow a case aboard a cruise ship, and Angel gets jealous over Cordelia’s flirtation with Malibu Ken.
Spoilers: None, but this takes place right after Fredless, S3.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: Just ask
Notes: Warning: This might get schmoopy, get the insuline shots ready.
Thanks/Dedication:For Gabriella who requested jealous Angel and a romantic cruise. I hope it’s what you were wanting.
Feedback: Duh!

As the ship sailed from the LA harbor, Angel leaned against the rail and watched the skyline as it disappeared. The sun had set approximately ten minutes ago and the sky was threaded with red streaks running through the underbelly of the white clouds, and the light was enough to set a pang of longing through his body.

He closed his eyes, the scent of the ocean sharp in his nostrils.

In his ears was the laughter of his Seer, carried by the breeze.

He turned his head to the sound, like a hungry moth drawn by the fire’s flame.

She was seated in a deck chair, her hair floating around her bare neck, tucked behind her ears in a way that was both innocent and highly provocative, as only she could be.

His lips quirked up at the sound, even if she was laughing for someone else.

Dr. Jake Bennett, plastic surgeon, sports enthusiast and all around nice guy, smiled back at her.

Angel sniffed him while shaking his hand earlier, but could not detect anything demonic in the man.

He told himself he was not disappointed.

Cordelia’s smile rivaled the light show nature had put on, and Angel knew the doctor was taken, even if he couldn’t see the glazed look in the man’s pale blue eyes. He knew the feeling of getting caught up in those rays, though, of feeling as though anything were possible as long as she smiled at him like that.


“Did I tell you about his charity work?”

Angel looked up from his slow perusal of Cordelia’s body hugging black dress and focused on the back of her head as she fixed her mascara in the mirror over the bureau. The cabin was smaller than he liked, having been one of the last available, and Cordelia’s perfume pervaded every inch of the space they shared, her clothes hanging up next to his in the closet, generally keeping him at the knife’s edge of control every second since they’d first walked in.

“No, you didn’t.” He replied, and pushed back the spark of irritation from his tone.

“He goes to Africa with a bunch of other doctors twice a year and operates on kids with clefts.” There was real admiration in her tone and no doubt she was thinking of the tan Dr. Jake had come back with, the sun-bronzed golden hair a result of studiously saving orphans rather than surfing in Malibu.

He cursed the vision she’d received three days ago, the one that said the ship’s unofficial manifest would include a vampire looking for passage down to Mexico, one that would help himself to the buffet of drunk, horny passengers during the cruise there.

Dr. Jake had been behind them as he boarded and as soon as Cordelia had dropped her bag, he’d been there to pick it up, and smiled at her with his shiny white teeth while he did it.

The idea of pushing the good doctor overboard, within swimming distance of the pier, of course, had crossed Angel’s mind briefly but he doubted he could get the guy alone to do it, what with the walks he invited Cordelia to join him on, and the dinner he’d invited her to while Angel stood next to her, glaring.

“Does he?” He asked as he smiled through his teeth.

“Uh-huh.” Cordelia nodded enthusiastically as she dropped the make up back in her bag and turned to face Angel. “Well, what do you think?”

He didn’t answer right away, running his eyes over her body again from head to toe, taking in the dress and heels, the toe ring that peaked out from the hem and the wrist tattoo she got after the Doximol incident two years ago.

His gaze focused on her bared neck again before he raised his eyes to hers, noting her expectant look.

“Very nice,” he whispered, voice like warm velvet.

Her smile faltered for a second before notching up in brightness, but he heard the way her pulse picked up.

“Well, uh,” she laughed nervously and grabbed her bag from the bed. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t say anything on the way to dinner and he was content to let the silence stretch between them, reveling in having left Queen C momentarily speechless.

When they got to the entrance of the dining room, his smile dropped away.

Dr. Jake was waving from one of the long tables, already half full of hungry diners.


The doctor was at his charming best during the appetizer course, detailing his last vacation to a Switzerland ski resort just enough to make it interesting, but without sounding as if he were bragging.

During dinner, Angel took a serving of rare roast beef, and a glass of deep red wine, running his tongue over his elongating teeth when he cut the meat and it bled over the green beans.

He listened to the good doctor as the man seduced his Seer with carefully dropped hints of his suitability as her mate, and didn’t say anything when he reached out and covered her hand with his during his story of the reality of life in Africa.

Angel just waited.

When dessert came, he chose a flaky concoction filled with real cream, and cut into it carefully.

He leaned over with his spoon full of heaven and tapped Cordelia’s shoulder.

“Try this.” He whispered into her ear. She glanced back at him, and then the dessert and nodded.

He brought the spoon up and she parted her lips, allowing him to direct the dessert into the warm cavern of her mouth. Her eyes closed briefly at first taste and she made a noise in her throat that caused him to harden uncomfortably behind his zipper.

She opened her eyes and looked at him, waiting for him to remove the utensil but he didn’t right away. Instead he turned it over so her tongue pressed against the curved side, and slid it out slowly, capturing her bottom lip with it before withdrawing it completely.

“You missed some,” he said quietly before popping the spoon into his mouth and licking her taste from the tempered metal.

Her eyes darkened and he caught the piquant scent of her sharply drawn arousal in the air between them.

“Did you like it, Cordelia?” His tone was lazy with desire, eyelids drooping as she stared back at him and licked her lips.

“What?” She asked. Then she blinked and shook her head. “Yes.” She nodded. “I did.”

“Mmm, that’s good. How about more?” He scooped more and held the spoon up between them.

She shook her head, looking as if she was clearing her mind.

“Angel, take me for a walk?”

He dropped his napkin and slid his chair back, glancing at the doctor who’d watched the entire play with a resigned look on his face and a twist of his lips.

“You’ll excuse us?” He rose and took Cordelia’s elbow, helping her out of her chair and steering her towards the exit without looking back.

He brought his hand down and cupped the curve of her hip, feeling the warmth of her skin under her dress.

When they got outside she stepped away from him and began to walk.

The night was mild, the sky clear with glittering stars. The full moon hung low, casting a sliver light over everything, and the ocean waves lapped against the hull of the ship quietly, the sound soothing.

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” She asked, turning her head to look at him as he walked beside her.

“Yes it is,” he agreed as he watched her hair ruffle in the breeze.

“So, what was going on back there?”

Direct and to the point, that was his girl.

Before he could answer however, she stopped walking and thrust a hand against his chest, her face alarmed.

“Angel, look.”

He followed the direction of her gaze and saw a woman struggling in the embrace of a man.

A vampire feeding.

Angel’s face shifted as he caught the scent of freshly spilled blood in the air, and growled as a part of him responded to the smell, feeling a hint of excitement at the sight of the girl’s struggles.

He rushed forward, grabbed the girl away, pushing her towards Cordelia’s reaching hands before facing the other vampire.

“Hey,” it growled with blood around its mouth. “I wasn’t done yet.”

“You really are,” Angel replied as he pulled his stake out of his dinner jacket and plunged it into the stunned vampire’s chest. Looking stupidly caught off guard, the thing exploded into dust.

Angel watched as the particles swirling in the air before being blown out over the water.

He turned back to see Cordelia cradling the girl on the deck as she cried. Cordelia’s left breast was half revealed as she leaned over, half shadowed by the moonlight, and he sucked in unneeded air at the sight, feeling the blood thrum through his body.

“I think she’s okay, just scared and stunned. I don’t think he had time to take very much.”

He stooped over and helped her up, taking the girl’s other elbow and leading them indoors.


An hour later they were back on deck, the tension reinforced by the late hour.

Music from the dance room filtered out, the sound of the sax like hot sex in sweaty sheets drifting above their heads.

“Dance with me?” He asked, taking her elbow.

“Okay,” she replied before stepping into his arms. He pulled her flush against him and began to move slowly, brushing his hips over her belly with each step.

“You’re seducing me.”

He chuckled and held her closer, breathing into the pink shell of her ear.

“Not much gets by you, does it?”

“Not when it’s rubbing against me, no.”

He leaned back at the wry tone of her voice.

“Does this bother you?” He asked in seriousness.

She thought about it for a moment before shaking her head.

“No, I’m just wondering why now.”

He craned his neck forward and planted an open mouthed kiss against the skin below her collarbone, making her breathing erratic.

“Well, seeing as how you just met the perfect guy, one who could offer you everything I can’t, I thought it might be a good time to make sure you have all the facts.” He kissed her jaw line and her head fell back, bring her pelvis right up against him, and he rubbed against her, letting her feel the desire he couldn’t hold back anymore. “Let you make an informed decision.”

She sighed and leaned her head forward, chuckling softly.

“You’re such a dork, you know that?” She huffed against his cheek.

His hand ran up and down the center of her back, counting her vertebrae.

“Why? For thinking you might want more out of life than darkness, death and pain?”

“For thinking a beach house in Malibu and little blue boxes were what it took to get me.”

He opened his mouth but she cupped her hand over it, silencing him.

“I’m not saying it wouldn’t be nice. It would be.” She laughed. “It really, really would be.” Shaking her head as if to clear it, she looked directly in his eyes. “But that’s not the only thing I’m about anymore, Angel, and you really are crazy if you think I’d be happy with any of that if it didn’t include you too.”

It was a second before her words sunk in, and when they did, he smiled, genuinely feeling as though he might lose his soul if she said anything else.

“That’s good, Cordelia, very good.” His hands dropped to her hips and he squeezed her against his hard on. “Because I’m not sure I could let you go at this point anyhow.”

“That’s sweet, Angel. And vaguely stalkerish, but I’ll let it go this one time.”

She lifted her head and parted her mouth against his in a kiss he deepened before she had a chance to withdraw, opening his mouth against hers and gently thrusting his tongue between her lips.

Minutes went by and he became lost in the taste and sensation of her, his hand roaming up to push aside the halter strap of her dress and palming the round bone of her shoulder.

Her breast popped free and he tore his mouth away with a growl, bending to capture one hard nipple, sucking deeply until her knees buckled and her body arched back in his hold.

Instead of falling into his arms, however, she lifted his head and kissed his wet mouth.

“Hey sport, not really into exhibitionism.” She stepped back and he reluctantly let her go, watching as she covered her breast. He stepped into her space again, hands reaching and she stopped him again with a laugh.

“The case is over, we’re not even half way through the trip, and there’s an empty bed in our cabin. Can you think of anything we could be doing between my trips to the sun deck?” Her playful tone was warmly seductive and the punch of desire hit him again, low in the belly.

She had him, well and truly now, and he wasn’t going to let her go, ever again. The curse was an issue, one he thought about more frequently as his feelings for her grew, but he’d find a way to stay inside himself when she made him fly apart, because he couldn’t go back to being just her friend.

“Don’t worry, you won’t lose your soul,” she said as she read his worries on his face. “I know how to slap and come at the same time.”

Her words acted like gasoline on a fire and he grabbed her elbow, leading her through the double doors, into the warmth of the corridor.

“What makes you think you’re going to be rested enough to get up and go tanning tomorrow?” He growled playfully as they stepped into the elevator.

The doors shut on her laugh.



Posted October 30, 2015 by califi in Complete

Not Alone   Leave a comment

Title: Not Alone
Author: Samsom
Posted: 06/06
Rating: PG
Category: Hurt/Comfort, angst.
Content: C/A
Summary: Angel goes back in time, and lands on the worst night of Cordy’s life pre-LA. Uh, did I mention I suck at summaries?
Spoilers: Btvs S3 Lover’s Walk/AtS early S2
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: Please ask
Notes: Warning, this is unbeta’d. I just wanted for Cordy not to be alone that night at the factory. Hence the brilliant title.
Feedback: Is yummy. Concrit also welcome.

He hates time travel. It’s disorienting and makes him feel like he’s a second behind the rest of the world. Nausea has him crashing to his knees the second the portal closes and he gives in to the urge to fall over, rolling over to watch the stars spin in the sky.

At least he landed at night. The talking bush wasn’t clear on the exact time constraints so Angel was a little aprehensive about catching fire the second he arrived.

Looks like Wes came through, though.

He owed the man a raise.

Angel rolled to his feet and staggered before steadying himself. He was so tired his bones ached but there wasn’t a lot of time. He had to get the talisman from the old factory and get back to this spot before dawn, if he was ever going to get home.

Looking around, he realized he’d landed in the park that bordered the old woods. His mansion wasn’t far from here. It was 1998, which is when Trick had hidden the amulet after Kakistos was slain after their arrival in Sunnydale.

He started to make his way out of the park, the path familiar to him. Buffy had patrolled here, sometimes alone, sometimes with him, and he remembered the twisting, turning path like he had just walked it yesterday.

Too many memories assailed him. Walking with Buffy, stalking Buffy, never being a part of anything, just the vampire in black who disappeared when Buffy’s eyes weren’t on him. He remembered that yearning, but didn’t feel it anymore. Couldn’t quite recall the urgency to be with her, that ache that never went away.

He was almost surprised to discover he didn’t really feel any of it anymore.


The factory smelled as bad as he remembered, smoky from the fire, a faint metallic tang, and if he breathed in deeply enough, he could still detect Spike’s scent.

In a small, burnt out room, he looked over the badly plastered wall. A different color than the rest of the room, it was obvious something had been hidden in there.

Angel curled a fist and punched through, feeling around with his fingers and snagging a chain. Bringing his hand back out, the amulet dangled limply in his grasp. Dull gold, with small gems encrusted around it, it didn’t look like much by way of dimension-collapsing objects. But the monks wanted it for safe-keeping and had paid in cash. Lots of it. He was under threat of a dusting by his hazel-eyed seer if he didn’t come back wtih it.

He turned and began to squeeze through the collapsed door. It led to another, slightly bigger room, full of plaster rubble and rebars sticking out of what used to be foundations. He was about to turn and find another way out when the whispers reached him.

He stopped and listened, scenting blood suddenly.

Someone was bleeding.

He cocked his head, and realized he knew the voices. Xander and Willow. What were they doing at the fac-?

Oh God.

With horror, he listened to the sounds of their kissing, and the sound of footsteps along with the scent of Cordelia.

There was a hushed, horrified silence before he heard Cordelia’s small voice, followed by Xander and Willow, then Oz.

He remembered what came next, remembered the way Buffy had told him nearly two years previous, with regret and concern coloring her voice. Remembered that he was only slightly interested then, thinking only that Harris was an idiot.

Now, all he can do is listen with a sickening sense of inevitability as Cordelia rushed back up the stairs towards his position, the awful give of the rotted wood and plaster under her feet and then her body hurtling downwards, pulled by gravity and heartbreak, body tossed by falling debris until she landed with a ripping sound.

For a few merciful seconds, a white cloud obscured his vision but the sudden, nearly overpowering smell of blood rushed over his senses. For the first time since Darla bit him, the smell was wrong, and all he could think of was that precious liquid spilling over the floor under her supine body.

The dust cleared and the sight of her lying there, with the rebar jutting up obscenely out of her torso, was so much worse than anything his mind conjured.

“Cordelia.” He whispered, staring fiercely, the need to go to her overwhelming. He barely held it in check, knowing that none of Buffy’s friends could see him since he was supposed to be with Buffy and Spike at the Magic Shop. But the sight of her lying so still and small made him sick inside and he willed Xander to hurry and climb down. She looked so alone.

Finally Xander did, crawled over to her and whispered she’d be alright.

He could hear her heart, erratic but beating, and she moved her head to the sound of Xander’s voice, calling his name weakly and saying she couldn’t see him.

Angel’s hands convulsively gripped the turn in the wall as he watched Xander repeat her name as she faded into unconsciousness.


He watched the paramedics extract Cordelia, heard her agonized cries as they transported her onto the gurney and lifted her through the hole. Long minutes passed and then he was alone again, needing to throw up so bad he tasted old blood in the back of his throat.

He shook the feeling off and continued on, finding his own way out of the factory and heading to the hospital.


It was a chaos of artificial smell clashing with illness and tainted blood as he walked through the emergency room, but he followed the sound of talking nurses and doctors until he found the right area. Cordelia was lying behind a door, being operated on and Xander stood with a devasted Willow in the waiting room, frantically trying to call Cordy’s parents.

He found a corner and waited.

Hours later, the crowds thinned and died out, and the hospital quieted. Everything was muted, like trying to listen through glass. He floated through the hallways, easily keeping out of the way of the night staff as he located Cordelia’s room.

Opening the door slowly, he entered, eyes drawn towards the bed at the far end of the room.

It was a private room, softly lit and quiet as a tomb, the only sound the beep of the monitors they hooked up to her.

He walked closer, taking in the the limpness of her body. She smelled like iodine and rubbing alcohol, and raw pain. Just two days ago she’d waved a wrist under his nose, asking him what he thought of her new musk. He’d smiled slightly and said it was okay, then spent the rest of the day following her around the apartment, trying to catch more of that subtle scent that weaved around her.

He took her cold hand and squeezed tightly, willing her to feel him.

“Cordelia,” he whispered. “You’re not alone.”


When the threat of dawn rolled over his senses and his vampire instincts screamed at him to take cover, he stood up and bent over her.

“I have to leave, so I can go home. Wes is there, and Dennis. And you’re there.” He leaned over and pressed his lips to her forehead. “You’ll be okay. I promise.”

He let her hand go, turned and walked out of the room.

The amulet bumped the side of his thigh as he walked, a reminder of what was waiting for him.


The nausea was just as bad going back, the dizziness twice as bad.

He landed in a heap on Cordelia’s living room carpet, groaning and wishing for some blood.

“Angel, you made it.”

Wes sat up on the couch and blinked at him. The ex-Watcher was still tender from the explosion that nearly killed him, and the rasp of his voice wasn’t just because he’d been sleeping.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I made it.”

“Did you get it?”

Angel reached into his pocket and dug out the talisman, tossing it lightly through the air. Wes caught it easily and reached for his glasses, slipping them on and examining it closely.

Angel climbed to his feet gingerly, steadying himself against the bookcase. Outside, it was still dark, the lights of LA twinkling softly.


He swung around.

Cordelia stood in the hallway, the open door of her bedroom in the background.


“How was the trip down memory lane, literally?” She smiled, softening the harsh edges of her question.

He shrugged, eyes taking in her appearance. Thin t-shirt and pajama bottoms, her hair was down around her shoulders. His gaze lingered on her belly, wondering about the scar, if it was white, or darker pink against the light tan of her skin.

She eyed him sympathetically, misinterpreting the reason for his silence.

“Hard seeing Buffy again, huh?”

He simply shrugged and let her believe that. Easier than explaining the truth roaring through him as he gazed at her, the knowledge that gripped his soul tighter than the curse. Of what he was feeling for her, of how long it had been floating around the edges of his awareness, pushed down out of habit and discipline.

She walked up and hugged him, arms tight around his back as she gave him comfort, never knowing she was giving him the succor of her body.

It came to him like truth.

He loved her.

God help him.




Posted October 30, 2015 by califi in Complete

Never See The Day   Leave a comment

Title: Never See The Day
Author: Samsom
Posted: June 06
Rating: R
Category: Hmm…Poignant
Content: C/A
Summary: It’s Cordelia and Angel, that’s all I’m going to say.
Spoilers: None, not really
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: Ask first, please.
Notes: I stay up way too late Saturday nights listening to music and watching TV and I get these ideas and next thing you know, I’m spamming with fic at 3 in the morning.
Eh. Whatever. At least I put it behind a cut.
Feedback: Always welcome

In his dreams, the cold blue of the room is broken by the golden glow of the fire in the oversized fireplace. The rain outside the wide windows cascades down in sheets, keeping the world out for just a little longer.

Her heels are hard on the hardwood floor, muffled briefly by the Persian carpets laid out in front of the fireplace before resuming its drumbeat as she moves closer to him.

He sits in a winged back chair by the wide, four-poster bed, waiting for her with one leg crossed over the other. He doesn’t move, just drinks in the graceful lines of her body, the curve of one hip as she walks with a deliberate sway towards him, aided by her black heels.

Her face is shadowed in blue darkness, her expression inscrutable to him.

She’s wearing a simple black dress and sheer hose, the only spot of color is the white pearls that curl around her neck and dip into the shadow between her breasts.

“Why am I here?” She asks.

She knows, though.

It’s a game they play.

“I wanted to see you. I miss you.” He replies quietly as he looks up at her.

She spreads her hands out by her side briefly.

“I’m here. See me.”

He gets up slowly, beginning the short walk to her, not stopping until he can feel her breath on his face as she looks up at him, eyes gone slightly wide.

“I always see you, though, always. Everywhere.”

He leans down just a little and takes her lips in a small kiss, parting his lips over her closed mouth.

She closes her eyes, not kissing him back.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

She’s always been the realist.

But not here.

Here is for him.

“We can, just for a little while.”

He coaxes her with drugging kisses that deepen steadily, arms kept at his sides as her head falls back on the stem of her neck. Not from the force of his mouth on hers – he keeps it slow and soft, deep and wet – but from the effects of her own desire for him.

She tastes like the sweet brandy his father used to keep for after Sunday supper, like honey and musk, and he can’t get enough, delving deeper into her mouth as his body gets hard, tightening with desire.

She lifts her arms, running her hands over his wrists and up his bare forearms underneath the rolled up cuffs of his sleeves, before stopping at his biceps. She squeezes gently, her tongue rubbing against his in a blatant invitation to another invasion.

He brushes his pelvis softly against her belly, barely touching her and that makes her breasts strain against the square neck of her dress, her nipples hardening to points as they brush against his button down black shirt.


She whispers his name in just that way he loves, low and helpless, before bringing her hands up to his head to hold him to her.

She doesn’t have to though.

There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

He encircles her with his arms, his right hand resting possessively in the space between her shoulder blades, brushing his fingers softly over the gooseflesh he finds on her bare skin under the softness of her hair.

Her skin is soft, but there’s such steel underneath, enough strength for both of them if he needs her.

And he always needs her, gets so lost without her.

The taste of her changes as he kisses her, becoming salty.

He’s lost now, adrift and alone and he can’t keep the world out forever.

She pulls back and looks up at him, sorrow clearing away her desire for him.

“I want to stay, I like it here,” she says.

She looks past him, past his shoulder, and he wishes he could see what makes her so sad.

“Here is better.”

A hushed whisper and he knows it means she’s going to go, fade from his arms and leave him alone.

“Don’t go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I never got to tell you I love you.”

“I know.”

She becomes harder to hold, but he fights to anyway, closes his eyes and tightens his grip.

But the world comes back and when he opens his eyes again, all he can feel is the grip of his hands on his forearms, the gnawing hunger that feels like a heartbeat in his belly, and the blue water that surrounds him.

He closes his eyes again, and tries to go back to her.



Posted October 30, 2015 by califi in Complete

Mourning The Dead   Leave a comment

Title: Mourning The Dead
Author: Samsom
Posted: July 06
Rating: PG
Category: Angsty-ish
Summary: Life goes on, doesn’t it?
Spoilers: Set post-Hero, pre-Parting Gifts.
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: The idea had been floating around my brain for a while now, how it must have been in that thin sliver of time when it was just the two of them.
Feedback:Welcomed and appreciated.

His ribs ached steadily as the bones struggled to knit back together, and Angel thought it was a lucky thing breathing was optional. He could feel the scrape against his tender insides and fought the urge to groan.

The elevator down to his apartment squeeked along quietly as it could, somehow mindful of the grieving girl next to him.

He glanced at Cordelia, taking in the brackets of pushed-down grief that lined the sides her mouth. She hadn’t said a word since they had finished the fight, merely allowed Angel to help her up after the demon had knocked her into a brick wall, slipping from his support as soon as she knew she wouldn’t fall back over and gathering up their weapons silently.

She’d fought hard, with more passion than he’d heard her speak with in the last few days, since Doyle-

-since Doyle died.

His ribs seemed to throb harder and he held himself with one hand crossed over his front, and her eyes flickered down at the action as the elevator finally stopped.

She moved before he could, opening the grate so he wouldn’t have to reach for it, and walked on into his private quarters. He followed her, tossing his weapons on a chest before heading into his bedroom.

She threw her bag onto his bed and disappeared into his bathroom, coming back with a large first aid kit.

“Cordelia, you don’t have to-“

“Yes, I do.” She interrupted, not wanting to hear the rest of his protest. “Get on the bed.”

He thought about refusing – this being his apartment and all – but one look into her empty hazel eyes and he lowered his head, walking over and easing himself onto the mattress.

She put the kit on the bed and climbed up behind him, on her knees so she’d have a better reach, and reached to the front of his body to unbutton his shirt. The action pressed her body against his side and he flinched at the feel of her breasts, moving away and slapping her hands off.

“I, uh, I can do it,” he muttered, taking his shirt off fast. He glanced over his shoulder and caught her rolling her eyes at his behavior. She reached up and peeled the shirt from his back, sucking in an audible breath at the deep scratches and punctures the beast had made.

Other than the breath, she wasn’t moving so he looked again and saw her anguished, panic-stricken face.

“Cordelia-” he half turned, wanting to reassure her but the pain from his ribs stopped him, made him gasp.

“Don’t move, Angel, or you’ll stake yourself with a rib or something.” She turned him so he was facing away from her again and opened the kit. He heard her ripping open gauze and smelled the ointment she used to kill any germs that might be lingering and went to work.

Her hands were cool but shaking. He could hear the sniffing as she tried not to cry and he wanted to turn and hold onto her, remembering how she clutched at him as they watched their friend disintergrate in front of them, how he held on to her in return, hanging onto his only remaining friend.

“It’s okay, you can cry for him,” he whispered instead, staring straight ahead.

The fingers smoothing ointment over the bite marks on his shoulder blades trembled harder and she snorted.

“I’ve cried enough, thank you,” she answered in a strangled voice.

They finished in silence. She wrapped the bandage around his ribs four times and secured it with half a dozen pins before beginning to clean up the mess scattered around her.

“Okay, you’re all fixed up.”

Her voice was calmer, as if she had pushed through something.

He stood up and reached for his shirt again, gingerly pulling it on as he gazed at her.

Her eyes were swollen, even though she hadn’t let the tears fall. Her cheeks were dry, her mouth a hard line of control.

Cordelia grabbed an armful of dirty gauze and slid off the bed carefully, padding into the kitchen to dispose of the cotton and torn packaging.

He followed, watching her quietly, taut as a bowstring, betraying nothing.

She turned and caught sight of the whiskey on the counter, freezing for a long breathless moment.

The whiskey was Doyle’s, left after one of his last vision-induced fits of drinking.

There was a small sound and her shoulders started to shake badly, and then he smelled the hot salt of her tears as the dam broke loose.

Her body bent over, as though she couldn’t quite hold the pain in and he was at her side instantly, taking her shoulders and supporting her weight as her knees gave out and she cried against his chest.

He didn’t make any noise, knew she wouldn’t appreciate the meaningless comforting sounds one usually made at times like this. His own grief for Doyle was softer, sadder, having been through something like this a time or two before.

But this was Cordelia’s first loss, and she was so young, not even twenty.

A vague feeling of dread rode over Angel’s pain, and he questioned again why he’d allowed her to stay, to risk so much of herself, possibly her life, over his mission. She needed to be living, pursuing her dream of stardom in the sun, not crying jaggedly against his chest while they were both covered in the stink of a demon she’d helped him kill.

Some time later, he thought it might be close to dawn, her cries turned soft, tired, and finally she just breathed.

He didn’t let her go, arms tight across her shoulders, until she pulled away first.

She stepped back, out of his embrace, and the air between them cooled rapidly as he watched her go over to his sink and run some water, splashing her face.

She turned back around after drying the water off, looking at him unflinchingly.

“Thank you.”

Her voice was a little hoarse and she sounded tired.

And then, while he tried to think of something to say, her stomach rumbled.

They both glanced down at the noise.

He looked back up at her face.

“Would you like some eggs, Cordelia?”

She didn’t say anything, and he thought she might refuse, but then she smiled, just a little one, and nodded.


He echoed her okay and walked over to the cabinets, pulling out a pan and then turning to the frige for eggs and milk. She busied herself during his preparations by getting his blood out of the fridge and setting it in the microwave, then turned to get some dishes.

She set the table and sat down, taking the lid off the butter and jelly while Angel scrambled eggs and made toast.

After a few comfortable minutes of silence, she spoke again.

“Angel, Doyle isn’t the first one I’ve lost.”

He brought the eggs and toast to the table and sat down opposite her. The blood he left in the microwave.


She glanced down as she spooned eggs onto her plate, steeling herself.

When she looked up, her eyes were soft with memories.

“His name was Kevin,” she told him.

“Boyfriend?” He questioned.

“Yeah, for a little bit. He died the day the Master rose – remember that night?”

Angel would never forget.

“He was supposed to meet me, to set something up for the dance, but he never showed, and we found him in the A/V room at the school.” She glanced up at him. “Vampires.”

He wanted to say he was sorry but she waved it off, and he knew that to her, it had nothing to do with Angel.

“Anyway, he was the first boy I really, really could’ve loved…”

He listened as she talked, listened as she mourned for the boy she lost three years ago, as he had listened to her cry over the friend they’d both lost a few days ago, and he found that a little of his own ache eased as he did so.


Posted October 30, 2015 by califi in Complete

Love Like Hate   Leave a comment

Title: Love Like Hate. A Darkness Within Fic
Author: Samsom
Posted: Nov 5, 2006
Rating: R
Category: Angst
Content: Angel’s POV, during Drawing Lines
Summary: Angel’s thoughts during Reprise
Spoilers: Reprise
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: Please ask
Notes: his is pretty spontaneous, so apologies for any misspellings or inaccuracies.
Thanks/Dedication:To Califi, who liked Drawing Lines so much she asked for Angel’s POV. I hope you like it.
Feedback:But of course.

He goes back to the hotel, seeking something he won’t name, crosses the lobby hearing only the echo of his footsteps, and stares at the empty desk his Seer used to occupy, as if he could conjure her form by force of will alone.

But the chair remains empty, like his hotel is empty, like he is empty – shuttered and dank.

He thrusts the remaining signs of his pushed away life off the counter and listens as the books and papers hit the floor and scatter.


The city is a dark blur of lost lives and stinking sulphur as rain hovers but does not fall, and he passes through the streets and alleys like a sleep walker, hardly noticing the things in shadows that shrink away from him, or the whores that smile an empty invitation in his direction.

When he looks up, he finds himself on the rooftop opposite Angel Investigations.

His people are in there, quietly working, trying to pretend they can still make a difference. Cordelia’s head is bent and he watches her lips move slightly as she writes in dog-eared notebook. Her hair is shorter than the last time he noticed, and lighter still. He wonders if this is an attempt to move on, and laughs grimly to himself at the thought.

She can’t move on. It’s in her every step past his hotel, every time she calls the lobby and hangs up, every time she lingers over his picture before going to bed at night, helped along by painkillers and the hope of a dreamless sleep.

Wesley is in there as well. He can’t see the man, but he can smell his wound, still tender and weeping.

He jumps and lands on his feet, crossing the street as if he had purpose, striding in as if he owned the space, like he still owns the people.

He can hear the hope in their voices, that ever breathless quality that dies when he goes past, shifting through the volumes on their book shelf as if he were looking for something in particular.

“Yeah, you took all the books.”

Affecting indifference to their outrage, he grabs the nearest familiar title and turns, only to have Cordelia return his opening volley by pulling the book from him.

He can’t hear what she’s saying from the sudden roar in his ears. She’s engaging him on his terms now, spoiling for a fight and he wants to give her one, steps into her space just so he can inhale the scent of her body and her fear, listen to the music of her pounding heart and stuttering breath.

Feels the old thrill shudder through him in waves as he presses closer.

“Don’t make me move you.”

Her breath hitches tighter and the sharp scent of something new enters the equation. Barely conscious of Wesley’s presence in the corner, he presses even closer, hands aching to grab her up and throw her down

across her desk

He wants to fuck her like the animal she sees when she looks up at him, sink his fangs sharply, deeply into her throat and feel her on the inside, make her feel him as she writhes in mindless fury under him.

Pictures the thought and lets it pull him under, her soft skin and luscious mouth calling like a siren as she screams for him



It’s only Wesley’s suddenly urgent voice calling to Cordelia that yanks him back from the fall, and doesn’t blink as he waits for her decision. Give him the book or take this all the way to the finish.

He finds himself wishing she wasn’t as sensible as he knows her to be, but Cordelia is a survivor with Sunnydale instincts – she knows when the hellmouth is about to swallow her whole.

She takes the step back by pushing the book at him.

He takes it like the book was his objective all the while, and turns to go before any more blood is drawn besides Wesley’s torn open stitches.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

Her voice is hardened against her fear and he replies with the truth.

“I’m a vampire. Look it up.”

He strides back into the dark stinking landscape of his city and swears to himself the next time he sees Cordelia, Wesley won’t be around to referee.



Posted October 30, 2015 by califi in Complete

Lost to Her   Leave a comment

Title: Lost To Her (A Darkness Within fic)
Author: samsom
Rating: R
Category: Angst
Content: C/A
Summary: Angel’s not coming back and Cordelia can’t follow.
Spoilers: This takes place at the end of Redefinition, after Angel sets Darla & Dru on fire, but before Wes comes down to the basement to make his declaration. Nothing in the scene, however, is spoilery for that ep unless 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
Notes: It’s a little rough, but I honestly can’t do anything else for it.
Feedback:Is yummy

The kitchen’s a little spare for food, but she tries anyway, scrounging in the fridge. The hangover that mostly disappeared with her vision in Caritas is still trying to make waves in her belly and she needs a little something to calm her rolling stomach.


Comes out with jelly and some bread, and smiles slightly before remembering why she’s standing in her kitchen with a slight hangover.

She never thought, ever in a million years, that this is where she’d be at twenty-years-old. Her picture of her future involved splitting her time between college and traveling Europe, double majoring in decorating and Business Admin.

Instead, she’s an unemployed secretary; an actress with no agent left to speak of, and, as the ache in the back of her head reminds her, still a full time seer.

With no Angel.

Taking her load to the kitchen table, she puts the jelly on the bread and spreads with quick and even strokes, murmuring absently when Dennis brings her a glass of milk.

She crazy for thinking they were going to be able to make the Agency work without the namesake, but she’s surprised to find that she’s jazzed that they’re going to try.

Wesley’s knowledge, Gunn’s fighting skills, and her conduit-ness – it still counts.

They’d saved a girl.

Killed a demon.

They could do it.

But first they needed their tools.

Finishing her too-sweet sandwich, she downs the milk and gets up with purpose.


She’s mildly surprised her key still works and slips into the dark lobby with as little noise as she could manage.

Holding the empty box in a light grip, she moves quietly behind the counter, opening up the built-in cabinet and pulling out her reference books.

She flips through them quickly, trying to pick the ones she thinks they’re going to need the most, and chooses three, dumping them in the cardboard box.

“What are you doing here, Cordelia?”

Yelping, she jumps from her crouch and ends up sprawling back on her butt, heart pounding painfully in her chest as she stares up Angel.

He’s half shrouded by darkness, his face painted up with cuts and purpling, angry bruises.

“What, the lawyers fight back this time?” She stands up. “Know what? Never mind, I don’t want to know. I’m just here to get some Agency property and then I’m gone.”

She crouches down again, and continues her inventory.


Now she doesn’t feel the bound leather from the tingling in her fingers, doesn’t see the titles because every one of her senses is honed on Angel, so she haphazardly grabs two more volumes, tossing them carelessly in the box with her other texts without knowing if they’ll be useful.

“Fine, take them and get out.”

He disappears from her peripheral.

“What is your damage, Angel?” She’s up on her feet and hissing at him before she could think about it.

He stops on his way to the stairs and turns back around to face her.

She rounds the counter and comes to stand in front of it, hands propped on her hips.

“When did you decide to make our decisions for us, tell us when the fight was over?”

“When I fired you.”

“It’s not that easy,” she counters, her head throbs, suddenly, as if in agreement, “not that easy for some of us to walk away.”

He stares at her with a face of stone, and doesn’t respond.

“Don’t you care that you’re taking the low road? That you’re throwing away everything you’ve worked for?”

She sees her answer in his eyes before he opens his mouth to confirm it.

“No, I don’t. Now get out.”

She sets her jaw and glares at him with scalding eyes, hating that he can get to her so easily, feeling him like a shard of steel right through the center of her heart.

“Then you’re just another vampire, and I’m wasting my time.”

She turns to get her belongings.

“Good-bye Angel.”

She’s leaning over for her box when she’s jerked back around by a hard grip on her elbow, and finds herself nose to nose with a pissed off vampire.

“You know what, Chase, maybe you need a lesson, you know that?” Backing her against the counter, amber eyes rimmed with red, he snarls into her face, lips pulled back over a predator’s teeth.

“I am a vampire, something you seem to forget pretty easily when you’re telling me who to hire and who not to kill, who to help and who doesn’t deserve it!”

He’s yelling into her face and if he grips her any harder, she’s going to start hearing bones crack, in addition to the blinding pain.

“Someone has to, you lost your ability to reason out the obvious months ago – and let go of me, goddammit!”

She reinforces her demand with the cross she keeps in her front pocket, pressing it with her whole palm into the back of his forearm.

His skin hisses instantly, and he pulls back with a pained snarl, letting her go and jumping back from the object, getting between her and the double doors on both sides of the lobby.

Angel regards her calmly with his demon’s face, glancing at his arm to check the damage before considering her for a long moment.

Her shaking breath fills the empty air between them, and he smiles grimly, smiles at her fear.

“That wasn’t nice.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

“Well, good to know the rules, then.”

He moves faster than she can blink, knocking the cross from her hand and grabbing her arms, pushing her back against the counter, holding her there with his body.

“You aren’t playing by anyone’s rules but your own, Mr. King-of-the-Universe.”

He nods approvingly, grunting as his eyes circle her face and neck.

“Catching on, Cor – that’s good.”

“Better late than ever, I always say. So now that I know the score, I’ll just leave you to your suicide dive,” she glares up into his face. “I’ve got better things to do.”

“Wes and Gunn can wait. You, on the other hand, need a lesson on what to expect when you go pulling crosses on friends.”

“We’re not friends.” She grits through her teeth and tears.

He stares down at her for a second, face in shadows she can’t see into, thoughts gone where she can’t follow. She wants to cry because he’s so far removed from what she thought he was – lost to his past and its hold over him.

“Maybe we never were,” he mutters before lowering his head and kissing her.

Except it doesn’t feel like a kiss, it feels like an invasion – another way for Angel to take something from her, to push her further away then she already is from him.

It nearly works.

She wants to stick her cross up into his ribcage and get the hell out of dodge but –

As he invades the inside of her mouth with his tongue, she tastes something different.



It’s in her mouth, salty and bitter.

Opening her eyes, she sees the tears down his face, going through the bruises and the cuts, mingling with his saliva on her tongue.

The shard of steel through her heart twists deeper, and she softens her body against his, tugging against his hold so she can bring her hands up against the sides of his head, holding him instead of pushing away.

Her mouth opens of its own volition and her kiss deepens, taking him in, trying to give him the succor of her touch, to heal some of the hurts that has him so twisted up he can’t see anything but pain and revenge.

His arms wrap around her torso, bringing her up closer, against his chest, holding on convulsively, his hands fisted in the back of her shirt, desperately taking what she’s giving him like a thirsty man in the desert.

The room narrows and time stops as Angel holds her, the world centers down to this moment and she thinks maybe she’s reaching him, bringing him back from the brink of whatever precipice he’s standing on.

She breaks away because she has to breathe, and he buries his face in her neck, his body vibrating with tension and a grief she doesn’t understand.

Then suddenly, he thrusts her away and she nearly stumbles back before catching her footing.

“Angel, what-?”

“Get out.”

She thought it hurt when he fired her, that it couldn’t hurt any worse than knowing he could cut them out of his life so easily.

She was wrong.

This is worse.

“Get. Out.”

He turns half away from her, steadying his voice along with his resolve, fists clenched against the sides of his thighs like he was looking at a cross.

“Are you really making this choice, Angel, because there’s no coming back – you know that, right?”

Her voice is soft but firm. She can’t afford to cut out more pieces of herself to hand over to him so he can stomp all over them. There’s got to be something left, or she’ll disappear, and if he sends her away this time, she’ll stay away.

“I’m not coming back, Cordelia. Get out.”

She nods once and goes to pick up her box, hefting it under her arm, and leaves him to his misery.

But she’s crying because she can still taste his pain in her mouth.

She can’t hear him tear up the inside of the lobby, can’t see him pack up her personal belongings and shove them into a closet.

Because she doesn’t look back.



Posted October 30, 2015 by califi in Complete