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Angelus can smell her before he can see her. The acrid scent of her fear floats down the stairs along with the sound of her footsteps, and a smile curls his lips. Her expression is carefully neutral as she descends into the basement, visible through the dimness even as she avoids eye contact. No light filters in from upstairs; she closed the door behind her. He watches the curve of her ass as she reaches up to switch the security camera off.
He says, “Here I thought you’d be halfway to Georgia by now.”
Cordelia sets her shoulders and then turns to face him. “I told you I’d be back. I’m back.”
“How’d the little field trip turn out? Priestesses still feisty?”
“We found a little boy, his sister, mom, dad, grandma—all dead.”
He sighs. “God. I’m always missing the fun stuff.”
“The Beast butchered them.”
“So, did you bring me back a souvenir? Maybe a stray baby toe?” He chuckles, rising from where he’s been sitting against the wall as she shakes her head at him. “Come on, Cordy. Where’s your sense of humor?”
“Guess I lost it.”
“Well, don’t blame me for your little debacle. I told you everything I know.” He wanders closer.
“Too late.”
“And whose fault is that? Doesn’t matter. I showed you mine. Now it’s time for you to show me yours.” She says nothing. Just stands there, smelling deliciously of fear, the blood humming beneath her skin. He goes on: “That is why you’re here, isn’t it? It’s why you turned the camera off. ‘Tell us about the Beast, and you can do whatever you want.’ Those were your exact words. Better ride than a Mustang, right?” He grins, runs his tongue over his teeth. He’s salivating.
“That’s right,” Cordelia says, and does not come any closer.
He tilts his head, considering. “You didn’t actually plan on going through with it, did you? You thought you’d just leave me with blue balls.” At her silence, he laughs. “Really! Did you think I’d agree to making a deal if there was any chance in hell of you weaseling out of your end? You can’t break a magical oath like that, sweetheart.”
“Yes, Wo-Pang has been kind enough to inform me,” she replies bitterly. “I have until the soul goes back in. Try to go back on my word and I get dead. Blah, blah, hell dimension, blah, blah, eternal torment, blah. I get it.”
“Should’ve read the fine print.”
“No kidding.”
He leans against the bars of the cage. “So, how are we doing this? My place or yours?” He gestures sardonically to the bare concrete floor behind him.
She huffs a laugh. “Yeah, like I’m stupid enough to go in there.”
“Stupid enough to let me do whatever I want to you,” he points out, and then smirks. “Something tells me you’re a screamer.”
She doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she drags a metal folding chair from where it’s collecting dust in a corner and brings it over to the cage. She sets it up just on the far side of the red line painted on the floor, and then says, “I promised you my body, not my life or soul. That means no biting. If you try to kill or turn me, all bets are off. Understand?”
“Sure, whatever you say. Now come a little closer, and lose the shirt.”
She hesitates for only a moment, and then pulls a cross and a little travel-sized bottle of lubricant out of her vest and sets them both on the chair. Then she strips off the vest and her shirt, tossing them carelessly to the floor. At his gesture, she does the same with her bra, then she picks the cross back up and steps within touching range.
He reaches out quick as a flash and grabs her by the hips, yanking her so she’s pressed against his front through the bars. To her credit, she gives no more protest than a sharp inhalation, and once he has her where he wants her, she doesn’t pull away. She stares at him defiantly, cross held tightly by her side.
He runs gentle hands up her abdomen, all that soft tan skin under his palms, and cups her breasts, thumbing lightly at the nipples. He bends down to press his lips to one and she freezes, but all he does is mouth at her, sliding his tongue along the hardening flesh and tasting the salt of her skin. He can hear the pounding of her heart, can smell the mingling of fear and arousal in the air. He sucks her nipple into his mouth and she lets out a breathy noise, pressing herself closer.
“Did he do this to you?” Angelus murmurs against her breast, and she stiffens. He grins around her nipple, tugging it lightly with dull teeth and then sucking on it again. “Did it remind you of when he was younger, and you fed him from the bottle?”
“Shut up,” she hisses, and with her free hand she digs her nails into his scalp hard enough to hurt.
“Pain won’t turn me off,” he tells her, and then grabs her hand from his hair to drag it down and press it against the bulge in his pants. “The opposite, really.”
“Are you done with my tits yet?” she snaps. “We’re on a time crunch, here. We’ve got about half an hour before they go to grab your soul-jar-thingy out of the safe.”
“So make them wait. I get whatever I want, remember? Which means they have to operate on my timetable unless they’re looking to see you punished for breaking your promise.”
He licks his way across her chest to her other breast. This one, he wraps his mouth around and bites into, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a ring of indents with her nipple at its center. She gasps, raising the cross in warning, and he flinches away from the way it feels like standing near frying oil, skin stinging just from the proximity.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he tells her. “I didn’t even have my fangs out. No blood.”
She brandishes the cross at him. “I said no biting.”
“I can bite you all I want as long as I leave you enough to survive it. Or did I misunderstand the parameters of our little deal?”
He watches the gears turn behind her eyes as she realizes that he could demand to drink from her. After a moment of consideration, she lowers her eyelids and purrs, “Are your teeth really what you want to be putting in me right now?” and drops her free hand to the button of her capris. The cross hangs limply by her side again, and she presses herself up against the cage bars.
He gestures for her to continue, and she unbuttons the pants and starts to push them down her legs.
“That’s far enough,” he tells her when they’re bunched around the middle of her thighs. She drops her hand away as he looks her over, taking in her toned muscles and lilac panties. They’ve got a little bit of lace paneling on either side beneath her hipbones, and they’re slightly damp. Angelus tucks his fingers into them and tugs them down to where her pants are caught, breathing in the musky smell of her arousal.
He strokes his fingertips through the neatly-trimmed strip of dark hair between her legs, circling lightly around her clit. Her eyelids flutter but she doesn’t close them, nor does she look directly at him; she seems to have fixed her gaze on a point somewhere over his shoulder.
Angelus slips his hand underneath her to find her entrance and nudges her thighs, indicating that she should spread them wider. She does, and he slides two fingers in. There’s a hitch in her breath.
“Feel good?” he asks as he slowly pumps his fingers in and out. “I don’t think we’re gonna need that lube.”
“Shut up,” she says.
“You can admit you like it. I won’t tell.” He winks at her, grinning as she rolls her eyes at the obviousness of his lie. If given the opportunity, of course he’ll use whatever weapon he can to humiliate her. She knows it.
She lifts herself off his fingers and says, “Isn’t it about time we get to the point of this thing?” as she reaches for the metal folding chair. She drags it closer, the tiny lube bottle wobbling precariously, and then turns to face away from him, positioning the chair so she can bend forward and brace her hands against its back, the cross still gripped in one of them. She presses her ass up against the bars of the cage as she leans over the chair.
“What a whore you are,” he says, drinking in the sight of her, bent over in front of him. “Presenting yourself to me like a bitch in heat. What would Angel think, I wonder? I bet he’d be disappointed. Embarrassed for you, too.”
He puts his fingers back between her legs, running them along her pussy, spreading the slickness along her skin. She shivers a little and maintains a staunch silence.
“Don’t you agree that you’re a whore, Cordy? I mean, in a literal sense. You offered yourself up to me in exchange for information. Was there seriously nothing else you could think of to give me? Nothing at all? I can’t tell if you’re selling yourself short, or if you think your cunt is really that special. What, does it taste like caviar?” He laughs as he cups her with his whole hand, and she drips into his palm, warm and wet.
He slides his fingers back into her and she grunts quietly, tries to push herself back towards his touch, the cage bars pressing against the flesh of her ass.
“Or maybe you just wanted it,” he continues. “Maybe you were just so eager to spread your legs for me for no other reason than that you wanted to get fucked.” He withdraws his fingers from her and unzips his fly, pulls his cock out. “By Soul-Boy, I guess. You know I’m not him, though, don’t you, sweetheart?”
It’s a rhetorical question, really more of a statement, but she finally breaks her vow of silence to say quietly, “I know.”
He drags his cock along the seam of her, getting it slick, and then lines himself up. He presses just the tip into her, and then gets his arms through the bars to grab her by the hips.
“You can pretend, if you want,” he tells her.
“No,” she says. “I can’t.”
“No,” he agrees. “You really can’t.” Then he pushes all the way inside in one smooth stroke.
Cordy swallows down a strangled moan.
“You can moan for me, sweetheart. It’s okay,” he says, pulling most of the way out and then pressing back in.
And, God, that feels good. She’s soft and wet all around him, muscles gripping his cock, hot and slippery and perfect. In front of him is the flat expanse of her back, shifting shoulder blades, the gentle ridge of her spine, the black tendrils of ink that sit right over her ass. He can’t see her face, but he can see the way her knuckles are turning white against the back of her chair.
The bars of the cage are terribly in the way, his elbows bumping against them as he tries to move. He lets go of one of her hips and grabs her by the hair instead, winding his hand into it and tugging. On the outstroke, he pushes her off him slightly, and then on the instroke he pulls her back so he can fuck her with more force. The chair legs screech against concrete as he thrusts into her, her ass smacking against the cage bars.
She continues trying to bite back the noises she can’t help making as he fucks her through the cage, his left hand clutching her hip hard enough to bruise and his right fisted in her short brown hair. After a few minutes, Angelus uses his grip on her hair to tug her upright, the chair toppling as she loses her grasp on it, and he pulls her against him as much as he can with the cage in the way. He snakes his arm around and holds her by the throat, hand tucked beneath her jaw, and she moans low and raspy. Her free hand comes up and through the bars to dig into his hair.
The metal of the cage bars is chilly through the fabric of his shirt as he crowds as close to her as he can, and he wonders if their cold is uncomfortable for her, if the way they bite into her back on each thrust is hurting her, if she’ll have perfect bruises later in lines down her back.
He licks her neck, presses dull teeth into the skin there, where he can hear and feel her pulse like the heavy thumping beat of a drum. She gasps and her pussy flutters around him as she tips her head sideways for more.
She’s stupid. She must be. She has to know that his word means nothing, and that he could let his fangs drop and sink them into her and drink and drink and drink—
He hears the cross clatter to the floor and glances down to see that she’s let go of it so she can rub her clit.
Angelus growls hungrily against her neck at the sight of her hand between her legs. Cordelia’s mouth falls open and she stops bothering to try and keep quiet, a moan vibrating in her throat beneath his palm. She turns her face towards his neck and buries her nose in it, panting, her humid breath dampening his skin, and it’s that feeling—the humanness of it, the warmth—that finally makes his gums tingle and his teeth lengthen into fangs, saliva dripping down them and pooling on his tongue.
She’s close, based on the way her body keeps tensing, and there’s a tightness in his belly as his own orgasm approaches as well. He ruts against her harder, snarling, rubbing the head of his cock against a spot inside her that makes her cry out. With the hand not on her neck, he reaches up and pinches a nipple, and she writhes in his grip, pussy clenching and back arching.
Suddenly, she clamps her teeth around the spot where his jugular vein is, digging into his neck harshly. He chokes on a sound and comes, spilling into her and shuddering. His hips still, a low pleased growl rising from his throat as the pleasure washes over him, and she detaches from his neck and tips her head back against his shoulder.
“Are we done?” she asks, and there’s a twinge of frustration in her voice.
And wouldn’t that be funny, if he pushed her off his cock and zipped up his pants? He could let her go without finishing her off, get his and send her on her way. Would she just let herself be irritable and on-edge for the rest of the day, or would she excuse herself for some alone time? She might be too proud to beg him to make her come, but is she too proud to rub herself off in a private room upstairs? Would she feel guilty about it afterward? He licks at her neck, smiling as he contemplates his options.
But maybe pressing his tongue against her like that is a mistake, because he can feel the throb of her blood beneath her skin, the heady pulsing of it, and realizes he can’t let her go just yet.
“No,” he says. “We’re not done.”
He rocks his hips, cock still half-hard inside her, and she whimpers. Then he drags one sharp tooth along her neck, not hard enough to bleed, but enough to raise an angry pink scratch. She hisses in response.
“Don’t,” she rasps, but she sounds like she’s aching for it, and he pricks her skin just a little harder, a little deeper, until two tiny drops of red well up in the crook of her neck. He licks the beading liquid before it can run, tasting the rich metallic flavor of her blood as his cock hardens. She says, “Angel, I mean it, no biting,” even as her body trembles and wetness spills down her thighs.
“I’m not him,” Angelus reminds her, and sinks his fangs in all the way.
Her voice is a breathy yelp as she curses, “Fuck,” wincing.
All the muscles in her body lock up, an instinct to prevent her from making a sudden movement that would send his teeth tearing through her neck. He pictures it in his mind’s eye: the violent thrash, the arterial spray, the death throes of a prey animal. He’s fully hard again.
He gets harder still as her blood flows into his mouth, warm and heady, and there’s a twinge in his gums as his venom seeps beneath her skin to soothe the sting of his bite. By the time he pulls his teeth out and licks the wound closed, she’s shivering and twitching, her hips jerking back against him as she seeks out friction again.
Angelus speeds his thrusts, deepens them, and she moans and pushes back, her hand going back to work between her legs again. She comes gasping, her pussy spasming around his cock.
She breathes hard as she comes down from it, but he doesn’t give her recovery time. He lets go of her body and shoves her until she’s bent over again. The chair has long been pushed out of reach, so she braces her hands against her knees.
Indignant, she pants, “You weren’t supposed to bite me.”
“Upset ‘cause you liked it?” he taunts, reaching through the bars to grab her by the hips.
“Oh, get fucked,” she snaps, and he laughs and pumps into her harder.
He holds her hips tightly, flesh going white under the pressure of his hands, keeping his thrusts short and sharp, bending his knees to lean into her. The bars dig into his shoulders and pecs and hips, but he ignores them, running his tongue over his teeth looking for the last clinging remnants of her blood in his mouth. Her breath is pushed out of her in little staccato bursts, a steady stream of “ah, ah, ah” noises from between her parted lips as he fucks her.
On a whim, he pushes between her shoulder blades again until she’s bent nearly double, and she gives a shrill squeak in response. With her left hand she grabs her own shin for support, and with her right she finds her clit again.
Regrettably, the cage bars just barely prevent him from reaching down and grabbing her by the back of her neck like he wants to, but Angelus finds a way to compensate pretty quickly. With her bent over, it’s easy to lick one of his fingers and brush it lightly over her asshole.
“Fuck,” she says, and arches into the touch, legs trembling.
He’s half delighted by her eagerness, and half disappointed that she’s not going to fight him on this. At least he can tell she’s a little nervous from the way the hair on the back of her neck is standing up. He presses firmer circles with his finger.
“Wait,” she says suddenly, and scrabbles for something on the floor, coming up with the lube bottle that’s been lying there since it fell from the chair. He plucks it out of her hand and looks it over.
He hums. “Say ‘please.’”
“What?”
“If you want me to use lube, you have to ask nicely.” He punctuates his statement with another hard thrust, pushing his cock as far into her as he can and making her groan.
There’s a single second of wavering and then she says, “Please. Fucking hell, please use the lube, you absolute bastard.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“Come on, please. Please, okay? Angel—Angelus.”
He considers saying no and fingering her dry, especially when she slips up and almost calls him by his soulful counterpart’s name again, but it’s the reminder of Angel that gives him pause.
He wants to take this from Angel. He wants Cordelia to have been his, first, and not only that, but to have enjoyed it. He wants Angel to always know how good Angelus fucked his girl.
He uncaps the bottle. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
Cordelia breathes a sigh of relief as Angelus dribbles a generous amount of lube into the cleft of her ass. He snaps the bottle shut and tosses it in the general direction of her pile of discarded clothes, then rubs his fingers through the slipperiness of it, brushing over her asshole. She moans, high-pitched, and bows her back deeper in encouragement.
He circles the hole again, feeling the delicate furrows of it. He slides his fingers back and forth repeatedly, and rocks his hips at a slow counterpoint. She huffs impatiently.
“Something you want?” he asks.
“Are you gonna do it already?” she demands.
“Hmm… Well, you know I like it when you ask me nicely for things. Beg a little.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Like you weren’t just a minute ago? C’mon, Cordy, it’s not like you’ve got any dignity left.”
She’s silent for a moment except for her heavy breathing, and then she grits out, “Please.”
“Please what?”
Another brief silence. “Please, I want—put your finger in my ass.”
“Give me your hands.”
She hesitates, and then awkwardly raises her arms behind her. Angelus uses his left hand—the one that isn’t sticky with lube—to grab her by both wrists and pin them against the small of her back. With the one hand, he holds her wrists there, and with the other, he presses the tip of a slippery finger gently against her asshole. He wiggles it a little and then pushes past the rim, and she gasps and then sighs as the muscle relaxes and accepts the intrusion. He slides his finger deeper, deeper, deeper, until it’s settled all the way inside her and she shudders.
He starts up his thrusting again, a moderate rhythm as he coordinates his hips and his hand, holding onto her wrists. Her pussy is hot and wet around his cock, and her ass squeezes tight around his finger, and he presses his tongue against the sharp points of his own teeth for the sweet counterpoint of a little pain with his pleasure. Cordelia moans loud and breathless as he fucks her, and as she starts to get close to coming again, she apparently figures out why he’s got her hands behind her back.
“I,” she pants, and simultaneously flexes her wrists as if to test the strength of his grip. “I need—”
“Uh-huh,” he says. “I know what you need.”
When he doesn’t let go of her wrists, she pleads, “My—My clit—”
“Mm-hmm.”
She whines a little. “God, would you touch it already?”
“Say my name,” he tells her.
Her body twitches around him, and she lets out a nasally little sound as she pushes herself back against his thrusts. Her breathing is harsh, and she can’t seem to stop making hiccupy little mewls of desperation.
“Go on,” he goads her. “You did it earlier. You can do it again. Say it. Scream it.”
“Fuck—Angelus,” she chokes out, and it’s like a dam breaks: “Angelus, Angelus, Angelus—oh, God, Angelus—”
He lets go of her wrists and reaches beyond the cage bars to tuck his hand beneath her hip and find her clit. He presses two fingers against either side of it and rubs, and she does scream, although it’s not his name. It’s wordless, a high-pitched vowel sound, her clit jumping and throbbing beneath his fingers and her body clamping down on his cock as she comes.
He groans, thrusting a few more times, and when she cries his name again, he follows her over the edge, his come spurting into her for a second time.
She breathes heavily for several minutes before it evens out as her body calms. He slips his finger out of her but leaves his softening cock inside for the moment, reaches down and tugs her into standing upright.
Almost upright; she leans forward so her neck is out of reach of his teeth. Seems she’s learned her lesson.
He lets himself luxuriate in the warmth of her pussy for another minute or two, and then slides out. His come starts to leak out of her and he swiftly pulls up her clothes, tugging the panties back up over her hips. He spins her around and she grimaces slightly as a wet stain from his come starts to spread over the fabric of her panties. He drags up her capris and buttons them for her, hoping the stain will start to show through this outer layer, too.
“There,” she says as he tucks himself back into his pants. “I kept my end of the bargain.”
“I knew you were a screamer,” he tells her, and licks his lips.
She scowls at him, looking like she’s about to argue, but suddenly the door to the basement bursts open, and Fred’s frantic voice calls out, “Cordelia?”
Cordelia freezes. “Don’t come down here!” she barks. “Did I not say nobody’s allowed to interrupt?”
Fred does not appear at the top of the stairs, apparently electing to remain on the other side of the door as she replies, “Yeah, but—the Muo-Ping—just, there’s a bit of a situation. Can you wrap up your conversation and come up here?” There’s a tremor in her voice. Interesting.
“Yeah, sure, I’ll be up in a minute.” Cordelia’s face has gone very serious.
“Okay. Hurry.”
The door shuts, and they’re alone again.
Angelus raises his eyebrows at her. “Uh-oh. Sounds like trouble.”
“No,” Cordelia says, and turns her back on him again to go hunting for her bra. “No trouble.” She mumbles the words a little, unconvinced of them.
A situation with the Muo-Ping, he muses. What, did they break the jar? Lose it?
A grin spreads slowly across his face.
He watches her as she gathers clothing articles and redresses herself, tucking her cross and little bottle of lube back into her pockets and putting the folding chair back in its place. She carefully adjusts the collar of her shirt to cover up the punctures in her neck.
When she looks back at him and sees his wide smile, she startles, and then narrows her eyes.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes with the others to put your soul back where it belongs.”
“Will you, now,” he says, unworried.
She balks. “...Yes.”
“If you say so.” He prowls around his cage, settling against the far wall to lean on it.
Cordelia smooths her hair down. It doesn’t help much; she looks like she just got fucked.
“You’re never coming back,” she tells him, as if trying to convince herself. “Angel’s gonna make sure of that.”
“Hm. We’ll see,” he stage-whispers, folding his arms over his chest.
Cordelia sets her shoulders and heads for the stairs. “Yeah,” she says. “We will.” And then she heads up and out, closing the basement door behind her.