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Fri, Aug. 20th, 2004, 10:43 am

Well, this community was pretty empty, and I wrote a little something, so here goes. What if Angelus got out and vamped Cordy (because, seriously, we know he would). This is actually only the first two parts-- it's going to be written in miniature scenes, not meant to be very long or even that detailed. It's untitled as of now.

The children are so stupid. Really, he would have thought that Angel would have trained them better, at least. Cordelia's smile glimmers from across the lobby; she prances up the stairs, her legs lean and light like a dancer's, and wiggles her fingers. "I'm outta here!"

Her hand curls around the doorknob. Angelus slides his hand up her arm to the back of her neck, sniffing at her nape as he holds her head in place. Cordelia tenses, but she is still unafraid; the scent of fear is only light in a way that, to him, is sharp like ozone before the storm. "No," he murmurs into the soft skin between her jaw and ear, "You're really not."

Cordelia is actually fairly resilient, which surprises him. Angelus knew she could hold her own, but Wesley could hold his own too, and he passed out after the third tooth came out. Cordelia cries, of course, but she doesn’t begin to scream until Angelus shows her Wes’ broken femur, which was snapped at just the right angle to ensure it slit through the skin.

"I'm trying to decide if I should fuck you before or after I kill you," Angelus says conversationally, sliding to his knees in front of her and splaying his palms on the inside of her thighs. She whimpers and stretches away, her back bending in the perfect, timeless arch: it makes him think of sex and death, the curve that passes through all women's bodies just before the orgasm, or just after his fangs touch the jugular.

Cordelia raises her eyes defiantly. "And I’m trying to decide if you’re always this boring, or if this is just a one-time thing."

Angelus laughs as he runs his fangs down the inside of her thigh, with just enough pressure to remind her exactly what kind of situation she's in. "God, I love it when you talk all rough and bossy," he says, raising his head to flash her a wolfish grin. "But, unfortunately, I'm on a time schedule here."

A smooth wave of tension ripples through her body as she strains backward, away from him; Angelus follows after her, snapping his fangs playfully in the air between her legs. Her thighs twitch and shudder underneath his hands. "Here we go," he says. "You'll like this, baby. I promise."

Before Cordelia can register the motion, he is in her lap, knees pressed between the arms of the chair and her legs. He runs one hand up to touch her, just there; she makes a strangled sound and begins to struggle. Angelus sniffs the patch of skin underneath her chin, mouths her jugular, and then--

God, he knew she would be good, but not this good. The skin is warm and smooth and so easy to bite through, a simple pleasure that never dims, and once the blood touches his tongue his senses amplify and everything is new, better. The smothered mewls vibrating her throat, the thrumming scent of her fear, the way her entire body contracts-- he holds her head in place, swallowing greedily, rubbing her through her underwear.

After a few moments, the voracity passes, fading into more of a pleasurable ache. He eventually pulls away, tilting Cordelia's head forward so he can look her in the eye. She looks like a junkie, all slew-eyed and slack, her mouth dangling open; when she exhales, he can see the blood rise up in her throat and flow across her tongue.

The knife on the table glimmers in the lamplight, a sharp reminder. He runs the blade across his wrist, blood seeping out through the shallow cut, tracing the lines of his palm in deep red.

Her eyes sharpen, even as her body begins to fade. Angelus holds the wound over her mouth, pressing hard, forcing the blood through her lips. The struggle is his favorite part, watching as the mind fights to resist and the body yearns for it, for life in any form. They think they'll never drink, but when faced with the decision and the blood against their tongue, they always do.

They always do, he thinks again, just as Cordelia’s mouth latches over his wrist.