Title: Angel, Hear My Cry
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.
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.