Title: A Deeper Burn A Darkness Within Fic
Category: Angst to smut
Summary: Cordelia’s feelings for Angel are driving her crazy.
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.
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.
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.