SUMMARY: Angel’s away, so Cordelia plays.
POSTED: 21 Feb 2008
CATEGORY: CHALLENGE FIC (PROMPTS)
WARNINGS: None Listed
FICPIC CREDIT: N/A
1) Gabriella prompted me with perfume, leather pants, and record collection. The cheeky little vixen.
Music by someone old and long dead drifts from his phonograph, scratchy and tinny at points.
She sits on the floor at the foot of Angel’s closet, wearing what had to be his only white dress shirt. Linen and cotton, soft to the touch. She bet it had a thread count higher than the sheets on her bed growing up.
Soft on her skin, she buttons it up only half way, reveling in the feel of being enveloped by him.
She delves into of his private space again and reaches blindly into the back, smiling when she finds what she’s looking for.
Dragging them out, she holds up the leather pants, smooth and rough beneath her clutching fingers. She wonders why he keeps them but she won’t ever ask. He’d never tell her anyway. Doesn’t like talking about the bad old days, she supposes.
She brings them closer and sniffs slightly.
It smells like animal and musk. Like that one brief second when he’d been on top of her in the cemetery, a heartbeat away from ripping her throat out.
Her nipples tingle and she shivers from the sensation, adjusting her position so that her thighs are pressed together with a gentle squeeze.
A thought slips into her mind and before she can reason herself out of it she stands up, holding onto the leather pants as she slips off her own fashionably ripped jeans.
The feel of them going up her legs makes the tingling intensify and she tugs them hard over her hips, settling them snuggly against her crotch. The zipper is really loud as she pulls up on the teeth and she pauses like she’s going to get caught even though Angel is out with Wesley and won’t be back until just before sunrise.
She finishes the action and buttons the pants together. They’re too big of course, falling down her legs in soft folds. But the feel of the skin against hers is like feeling him against her and wow, what it does to her. She shivers again, feeling herself growing more heated and wishes Angel had a mirror so that she could see herself.
Instead she goes over to his bed and lies down on top of the covers.
There is no noise from the office above, she can’t hear the sounds from the streets. It could have been four in the morning or the afternoon and she couldn’t tell. He had no windows in the batcave, no clocks to indicate the time.
Time didn’t matter to Angel, of course. He had his own internal one to tell him when it was safe to go out and when the sun was out.
She listens to the scratchy music, letting it drift over her. She knows Angel used to be a bar hopping womanizer back in his pre-vamp days and so the music was probably an acquired taste after his death and relife. She knows he listens to the records after one of Buffy’s less and less frequent visits, or an especially nasty clash with Wolfram and Hart. She thinks it must be his way of soothing the beast that lives inside him. Soothing the soulless monster whose pants she’s wearing.
She smooths her hand down her midsection, the shirt falling open over her belly. The heat between her legs increases the closer her wandering touch gets and she lingers at the waistband.
Finally, when her nipples are pebbles scraping the cotton of his shirt, and his scent rises up from the bedcovers and the feel of his leather pants gets unbearable, she unbuttons them and burrows beneath with questing fingers.
It doesn’t take much, she’s not one to hesitate about what makes her feel good, and in a few minutes, eyes wide as she stares up at the ceiling, she shivers in pleasure, moaning a little as she shakes apart.
As the waves recede, she curls onto her side slowly, feeling vulnerable and somehow unfullfilled.
Time stops for her too, then, as she lies there.
Finally, she gets up and strips off his things, puts them back in his closet and redresses.
She puts the album back in its sleeve and shelves it, turning off his record player.
Everything is in its place.
She takes the elevator back up to the office.
She doesn’t notice Angel’s shadowed figure on the stairs as she goes.
He steps down and gazes up at her as she ascends in the lift, knowing he can’t follow her into the breaking sunrise.