15/10/00
Angel
NC-17
Spoilers for Five by Five
Cordelia/Faith, (Cordelia/Willow)

Disclaimer: Once upon a time, there was a wonderful Buffyverse which included all things 'Angel,' and they belonged to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy and WB and Fox. Then one day, a writer took those things out for a spin, but she never claimed to own them, and she never, ever made any money off her use of them. All she did was create a story, which was hers, and which she hoped nobody would steal from her. The End.

Sex Disclaimer: There be girls having sex in this story. There be no boys involved. There be details. Yes there do. If you be underage, this better be one of them things you don't tell your mother about. If you be squicked, you suck. I love you not.

Notes:
Legends of Xander and Spike and the roll of duct tape may be read in the fine works of Spike and Te (q.v.).

This doesn't take Sanctuary into account, particularly. Instead, it takes off from the end of 5x5 and runs wild from there.

Fueled by Tori Amos' cover of "I'm on Fire," which has vibes that even my mother can hear.
 
 

Mockingbird
by Jane St Clair


She's gotten used to Dennis-ghost, even though she swears sometimes she can feel his not-there fingers running down her back in the night. And dark rooms in the office, which all things considered are probably A Good Thing, since Angel's not the kind of boss to get pissy with her if she takes an hour or four off for an audition, and he'd be hard to replace, and anyway the mess you get from dusting a vampire isn't the sort she wants to be responsible for cleaning up. And having Wesley around, though he isn't exactly the ex-boyfriend she wanted to be haunted by in her new, grown-up life.

She's gotten used to the horrible, fiery headaches that Doyle left her with that one sweet and oh-so-strange-and-hot kiss. The one that even now she lies awake at night and thinks about. Thinks about blue spines, and what they might have felt like running up and down the insides of her thighs. What it might have been like to lay down with someone her own height, instead of being a tiny body against a huge one. Thinks that maybe the pain is sometimes OK, because it reminds her of him, and Doyle isn't a thing she wants to forget about anytime soon.

She's even mostly got used to being poor.

Of all the things that suck, though, that one sucks the most. Because it's rearranged her so completely. It's not just the clothes she misses, though God knows the clothes were nice, and she misses her shoe rack with the kind of pain that most other people reserve for sort-of-loved relatives. The steel wall money built around her was nice, but she thinks maybe she's ready to live without that. Get out and breathe the very un-Sunnydale air of LA and get just a little bit dirty. Maybe skin her knee the odd time. Maybe find somebody with a pair of handcuffs who could skin several other things, and have a real night of it.

Down and dirty can be A Good Thing. Not Martha Stewart-y at all.

She misses her princesshood really quite a lot. Money was good for that. It was that teflon-slick extra layer she put on every morning on top of clothes and shoes and make-up. The Bad Things that happened to people (not good people, necessarily, but just the kind of people who might pop into the 7-11 at twilight for a grape slurpee and an Evian chaser) didn't stick to her quite as much. Stuck sometimes, of course, but not quite as much.

She's learned since then that a Sev in Los Angeles is a very different thing from a Sev in Sunnydale. More drug dealers outside, for one, and the floors have that extra-grubby quality that means that not only will you not be seeing your face in them, but you might want to curl your bare toes up in your sandals to keep them as far away from the linoleum as possible. On the other hand, she's more anonymous, and when she needs a sugar-shock, it's the place to be.

Girl at the counter moves really, really slow, like Cordelia's told her not to make any sudden moves. While holding some huge scary-sharp thing purloined from Angel's Closet of Death.

Somewhere in the back, there's a girl who really obviously was a guy a couple of weeks ago. New breasts, too big and still awkward. And the hips aren't right. She thinks about going back and giving him (her?) walking lessons.

Look, you've got a pelvis. You've got the shoes. Just let your hips rock when you move. Right.

Flashes back on a very surreal afternoon giving the same advice to Willow. Both of them in Cordelia's room, playing something that was very nearly dress-up out of Cordelia's closet. Willow in a distinctly not-floral skirt and a pair of sling-back pumps, stumbling like she'd broken both her ankles. Funny-wrong for Willow to be that awkward. It was part of her whole Willow-thing to float with her feet just above Mother Earth.

Remembers getting up and walking up behind Willow and pressing the red-head back against her. One arm across her hips, one across those almost-not-there breasts in their cute floral bra cups.

Saying, Look. Move against me. You lean back, you step out, you move up, your hips move here.

Marched Willow across the room like that, pressed skin-tight against her back, until her shoes stopped making earthquake shocks. She'd had this plan to let Willow go and let her keep walking. I'm riding my bike mommy! I'm riding!, or possibly Fly free, little bird! But instead she stopped, and Willow stopped with her, and she stood for a good minute with her right hand on that tiny hip and her left on that tiny breast, feeling Willow's nipple push out and into her palm.

She let Willow go, finally. Stepped back. Smirked. Ha! I have taught the geek to walk! And went back to sitting cross-legged in the middle of the typhoon of her wardrobe.

None of which has anything to do with teaching drag queens to walk, really. She wonders if this is like teaching pigs to sing, then snorts purple ice up her nose when she tries to stop laughing. Quick, hard flash of sinus pain, and she decides it's time to go home, 'cause it's at least an hour past the time when all Good Girls were in bed.

Which of course is the problem. The only good girl gracing her apartment is god-help-us Wesley, and thinking of him that way is Mean and Wrong. (Funny. True.) Except he went home an hour ago, when Angel showed up with the Evil Thing and told Cordelia to babysit.

When she calls home to Sunnydale, she gets told stories about Xander and Spike and a roll of duct tape, and when Angel came in, pretty much the same process came to mind. Tape Faith to a chair. Leave her there. Feed her pig's blood out of a plastic bad now and then. Molest her at unpredictable moments.

Which is suddenly both Eww and not-Eww, and she doesn't know whether she was more grossed by the prospect of bodily fluids in her fridge or by the sticky-messy-bad-dangerous-oh-so-very-wrong thing that is Sex with Faith.

Dennis-ghost greets her at the door with a quick swirl of not-thereness that's his substitute for a kiss. He's more tentative since she yelled at him, and she feels bad about that. He was trying to protect her, after all, and if she'd paid attention she wouldn't be sporting her current battered-wife look. One of the dealers outside the Sev stopped her and offered to beat up the fucker who'd done it. And if Angel hadn't made her promise to Slayer-sit, which seemed to imply leaving her charge in one piece, she would have taken Mr Scuzzy-man up on it. Let him go a few rounds with the Evil Thing. If Faith were loose, he wouldn't have a chance, but tied up . . .

"Thanks, babe. You shouldn't have." Faith holds out an unreasonably pretty hand towards Cordelia's slurpee. Even with Cordelia's irritation to mute it, though, the joke sounds brittle. Faith looks like death. Or maybe not. She looked like death when she faced Cordelia the first time today. Too dark and lithe, like she could just slide under doors, get in anywhere you didn't want her. Too able to hurt. Now she just looks dead. Beaten to a bloody pulp, inside as well as outside, and too shocked to fall down.

The instant Cordelia came around the corner and Faith stepped out, the second before she got hit, she'd thought she was looking into a mirror. Big dark eyes and long dark hair, both of them with the kind of killer cheekbones that other women pay plastic surgeons to construct. But Faith isn't like her. Not really. She looks dirty. She looks like she's been crying.

Cordelia throws her the Evian. Watches her twist off the cap too carefully, like she expects the tips of her fingers to come off. Watches Faith wrap her lips around the mouth of it and drink, and she has to have forgotten that Cordelia's there, because it just isn't as obscene as it could be. Only Faith drinking. For a second, her tongue slips out and catches a loose drop from off the cap threads, but it disappears back between those too-red lips like an animal disappearing down a hole.

"You could go wash your face," Cordelia says suddenly. "Bathroom's through there."

And watches her go. Faith's moving like the rest of them -- a little bit broken and hurting really a lot. But even that turns into a double-jointed swing of the hips just before she disappears through the door.

Cordelia leaves her slurpee and follows Faith into the bathroom. Finds her there bent over the sink and staring into the mirror from close range.

Cordelia says, "You can't see the bruises because they're not on your face. You're thinking of me." In the reflection, she can see she's purple now. When Angel woke her, he stroked the shiner for a long time, and it took her a minute to realize that it wasn't just sympathy. He'd be able to smell all the blood pooling under her skin. Not a thought she likes.

"What? Oh. Sorry."

Cordelia raises an eyebrow, then flinches when the skin pulls tight over her swollen cheek.

"Kiss it better for you?" Smirking now. She expects Cordelia to back down.

She doesn't. Instead, she tilts her cheek forward, lets the vanity lights expose all the different pretty colours her face has turned.

Brush of long fingers over her face. Faith's turned now, but still leaning against the sink with her body almost out of reach. Just one long, thin arm reaching out to probe the damage. Cordelia wouldn't have expected her to be so gentle. It's just a breath of a touch, skin on hot, hurt skin.

Then Faith rolls up out of her lean like a snake and arches forward and presses her mouth to the hurt place. Not a dry mother-kiss, either. Wet lips, smearing lipstick, trace of a tongue rubbing against the contusion. Which tilts down and morphs into a lip-lock, during which Faith's long, slender slut-body presses Cordelia back against the open door.

And she can grin, because Faith thinks she's holding all the knives now, and she isn't. All Cordelia has to do is enjoy the kiss and still be able to step back and smirk once it's over. Which she does, and gets the rare privilege of seeing Faith disheveled and angry and a little bit hurt.

Runs her tongue over her teeth. She feels vicious. "Hmm. Interesting -- I always wanted to know what 'skank' tasted like." It's not even very original, but it feels good to say. Because a lot of her just wants to fuel Faith's self-hatred. She might feel bad, but there's a good chance that's because she is bad. Cordelia got to clean the worst blood off Wesley's body tonight, and she has a set of washcloths that aren't ever going to recover. He had the stiff-upper-lip thing going on, but she knew him, and he was about six breaths away from just crying. Faith did that.

So she turns away and goes back out to the living room, curls up and watches TV. Her slurpee is melting, but not too fast, and the liquid purple is very, very good. In between sucks on the straw, she presses the cup to the hurt on her face, and that's good too.

"I'm sorry." Faith. Back in front of her, somehow, but at least not blocking the TV. She's kneeling, which leaves Cordelia a lot of room to watch cartoon X-Men, something Xander taught her to like, over her head.

"I'm sorry." Faith's crawled closer. Her knees are up against the base of Cordelia's chair now. Her tousled head framed by Cordelia's knees. She kneels up, blocking the TV, but it's such a stupid, childish challenge that Cordelia ignored her, looks through her and imagines she's still rich so that Faith will be that much less important.

"I'm sorry." And a lap full of Faith. Elbows braced on either side of her hips. Clever fingers that unbutton Cordelia's blouse without her feeling it and pull back the sides so that Faith can lean in and kiss between her breasts. Lips. Tongue. Another little smear of lipstick left as a souvenir.

It feels good. The kiss was only a kiss, but this is the warmest touch she's had in months. Not that she's exactly has no sex, since she does get the odd date. But nobody who wanted more than to get her knees apart and bang, and those go out the door as soon as she can get them out of bed. Faith isn't even moving lower, just expanding her kisses to brush the top of each breast, leaving warm-wet tracks behind her.

Big dark eyes watching her, because Faith does look up occasionally. There's a cut on her forehead that Cordelia might have cleaned and bandaged if she'd been feeling more charitable. Instead, she concentrates on not giving anything away, except enough to make Faith not stop what she's doing. Because it's good. Warm. Making her toes curl and her panties drip.

Better, even, when the fingers unbutton her blouse the rest of the way and push it back, then inch back up and lift one breast out of her bra cup. Faith just holds it in both hands and looks for a minute, so Cordelia looks too. It's a nice breast. If it wasn't, she would have done something about it by now, because you don't get acting jobs without the tits to back it up.

Then that animal-tongue reaches out and traces the aureole's rim, spirals in to the tip, licks across it hard. Strokes her and fuck it feels good. Two hands holding her breast up to be worshiped. The thumbs rub back to touch her ribcage, then sweep forward, ending with the nipple caught between them. And pinch for a minute. Twist. Cordelia gasps.

Faith looks up at her again, but swallows whatever look she was going to give. Instead noses the second breast out of its cup and sucks it gently while her thumbs stay working on the first one. Teeth at odd moments that remind her of vampires in exactly the way a Slayer's teeth really shouldn't.

She's melting. Everything between her legs is liquid and aching and her breasts are all electric, charged by the scrape of teeth and tongue across them. In a second, she's going to whimper, and that's really going to give up more than she wants to.

Faith's hands come up behind her and unhook her bra. The blouse slides off her shoulders backward, and the satin underneath comes off forward into Faith's hands. Only instead of dropping it like she did the blouse, Faith lifts the bra up to her face and breathes through it for a minute and that's just too weird. Like she's going to hunt Cordelia by smell alone.

The fingers are working again, this time at the waist of her shorts, and she isn't ready for that yet. Cordelia snakes a hand between them and jerks Faith's chin up before realizing that's probably a Really Bad Idea, because whatever else, Faith's a Slayer, and she could probably break Cordelia's wrist if she just turned her head hard. She doesn't, though. Just looks for a long minute, then grins, and the look is absolutely wolfish. What Oz must look like if he ever cracks a smile. Faith has striking incisors -- not vampire-long, but very there. And a body like a snake, which Cordelia noticed before, but the observation didn't really make her ready for how quickly Faith could roll up and be not just in her lap but on it, and kissing her.

She should have a license for that tongue. It's clearly got a life of its own, and if it isn't a pet, it's a dangerous animal. Scrapes her hard palate and her teeth one by one, reaches for the back of her throat. Under the creak of Faith's leather pants, Cordelia can smell arousal. Reassuring, because if this was only good for her, she was going to have to make them stop, she really was. And she doesn't want to anymore. She hurts from the whole miserable day, and she deserves whatever feeling-better Faith can offer.

The shirt in front of her is one she wouldn't ever have bought for herself, and normally she wouldn't even appreciate it, but it's stretched across breasts that are at least as spectacular as her own, which makes it hard to miss. Hard to pull off as well, but Faith rolls out of the lycra and cotton like she's shedding a skin. The bra underneath is the kind the Sunnydale Cordelia would have imagined she'd have -- thin and skanky, like something a hooker would wear with nothing over it at all. The L.A. Cordelia wonders how Faith manages to fight in it. But it comes off. And there's a breast close enough to her mouth that she can just reach in and close her teeth not very gently around the tip.

Faith hisses and jerks back, pulling the skin out of Cordelia's mouth. She stands back, and for a second Cordelia thinks she's going to back out, and tries to decide whether to be smug that she's not the only one with her shirt off.

But instead Faith flows back to her knees and unbuttons Cordelia's shorts and pulls insistently. She has to push herself back to get enough weight off her hips for them to come off, and in that second she's aware of just how naked she's getting. Because Faith's fingers are hooked in her panties too, and she's already braless, and her breasts are thrust out and moving while she's got her back arched. Faith isn't grinning now, but she's focused. She pushes the clothes away and gets a hand under each of Cordelia's knees, pulling her down and pushing them apart.

The first brush of the tongue against her labia is fantastic. Faith pauses there, breathing in the smell of her skin and pubic hair, then tilts her nose down into the dark hair and pushes her tongue deeper, between the curved lips and up inside.

Cordelia hisses. It feels unbelievably good. Nobody's ever done this for her before. She imagines in odd moments that Wesley might have, if she'd let him, but she was nervous then if she couldn't see a man's face. Tries not to think too hard about the fact that it isn't a man's face between her legs now. That there's still at least some lipstick on the lips that're wrapped around her clit and tugging a little. It's more information than she can process, and this is too good. Tongue on her clit, lips on her clit, finger on her clit and the tongue running up and down between her labia for a dozen long, fantastic strokes. Then it pushes up inside and reaches, and for a second she imagines that Faith could reach her heart that way, kill her and leave her sticky and incredibly pleasured but unfortunately dead.

A finger replaces the tongue. Not as wonderful at first. This much she's done on her own. But then it curls in and rubs while the mouth goes back to working on her clit, and another finger pushes in to join it. And a third.

It's a lot. She's stretching a little now. Twisting her pelvis to press harder against Faith's mouth. Her breasts ache, and for a second she'd furious that Faith can't work on those, too. Gives it up for futile and brings her own hands up. Pinches, twists. Does both hard, remembering Faith's hands and the pain they inflicted, how it ran all the way down and spread out there into something warm and sharp.

The resolution she made to be quiet died somewhere along the way. She isn't loud, but there are definite whimpers and hisses coming from between her lips. Then something that would be a shriek if she had any breath left for it, because Faith tucks a forth finger up her and presses very hard against her clit at the same time, and Cordelia comes. Twists her hips frantically against a face that's only too willing too move with her and ride it out.

Until she finally relaxes and Faith raises her hand, pulls the fingers out, two and two, careful. And Cordelia looks down at the nails and flinches, realizing how much damage they could have done.

"Hey, if I wanted it to hurt, you'd know." Sickly cheerful. But she looks down and there's a lot of hurt and a lot of tired around Faith's eyes. And something that looks a lot like just horny.

Cordelia thinks about reciprocating, but she's not sure she's ready to do that, and she's also not sure she wants to get down on her knees in front of Faith. So she just watches while Faith stands and stretches and grins at her a little with a face that's decidedly sticky.

She wants to watch Faith come. Thinks for a minute, then raises on knee slightly. Watches Faith's eyes widen.

"Fuck, C."

Cordelia nods. "Uh-huh. That's the idea."

Faith waits for a beat, then unzips the leather jeans and bends over to slide them down. Spreads her legs and settles with Cordelia's knee hard up against her. And starts moving.

There are people who pay money to watch shows like this one, she thinks. Beautiful woman rubbing herself to orgasm with every wrench of her hips. But pretty, too, in a way Cordelia hasn't seen much since she came to L.A. Like a kid, which she still really is. Faith isn't much older than she is, which means that she can't be more than nineteen or twenty.

She's panting hard when she raises her eyes to meet Cordelia's, and Cordelia's struck by how raw she looks. Faith with a man is a slick, glossy slut who doesn't give anything away, but right now she looks like someone's taking off her skin. Like she hurts enough that Cordelia can stop thinking about how much she hurts herself and reach out a hand to touch one too-sharp cheekbone. Gets the touch in, but only just, because Faith turns and catches her forefinger and sucks on it. Lets it stay hooked against her cheek when she opens her mouth in a quiet, agonized whimper that marks her orgasm.

Cordelia holds the other arm out. It's as much of an offer as she's going to make, but Faith comes into it, tucks herself up against Cordelia and rests there for a minute. Dark hair spreading over Cordelia's breasts. Other nipples stroking hers.

She remembers looking into a vampire's eyes -- not Angel's -- at close range, and thinks how Faith's are different. There's a lot of bad -- and it is bad, even Faith knows it -- but not evil. Cordelia's aware of how easily this could have been her in another life. One where she was born with no money and way too much destiny and had to get dirty before she was ready.

And she feels funny, because she's sorry for Wesley, genuinely. But Faith in her arms is a mass of raw pain that she can't ignore just at the moment, and not only because of her nakedness and how close that makes them.

Dennis-ghost is close by her shoulder. Subdued. His touch brushes her shoulder briefly, but she can see it run all the way down Faith's back. Cat-rise of her spine as she follows it.

"Christ that felt good. Thanks."

Cordelia almost blushes, but then she realizes that for some reason Faith didn't mean the sex but the touch that came after it. Cordelia opens her mouth, but the words coming out of it aren't a denial, so she swallows them. Dennis turns the heat up for them, just enough so they won't freeze while they're lying like this. Which is A Good Thing. Because Faith's a warm, strangely soft thing in her arms, and she's going to hang onto it for a few minutes while she thinks of what to do next.
 


 
 
 

jane
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