SCRIBES OF ANGEL
FanFic
________________________________
I
own none of the following characters. I don't intend to infringe on
any
copyrights. If you enjoy this story, please let me know at
RhinestoneDazzle@aol.com.
Title: Line In
The Sand
Author: Dazzle
Rating:
NC17
Ships:
A/C
Archive:
Wherever you want
Spoilers:
Set in the near future, sometime after "Waiting in the
Wings"
Warnings:
sexual content
**
"I had you guys pegged all along,
you know," Fred confesses, blushing
with combined bashfulness and pride. The
guys are out patrolling, and
so we're having a girls-and-baby picnic
of it. Connor's in his little
carry seat on the counter, going to town
on his bottle; Fred and I
are hanging out, listening to one of
Gunn's new classical CDs,
chowing down on Pringles and Diet Coke
with Lemon. It's as close as
we get to a party around this place,
most of the time. And apparently
it's gotten Fred loose enough to try a
little girl-talk.
"You pegged what?" I say, even
though I know full well.
"'Bout you and Angel," she
says, grinning. She pushes the sleeves of
Gunn's Lakers sweatshirt, absurdly large
on her, back up above her
elbows as she continues, "I just
knew you two were destined for each
other."
"Destiny," I say. Weird word
to apply to me and Angel. Destiny's a
big word; it takes in prophecies and
constellations and
inevitability. Doesn't seem to have a
whole lot to do with us --
people who knew each other for years
without caring much, who ran
into each other at a cocktail party and
started working together, who
fell for each other only after the other
people we'd loved were lost
forever. But then, who's to say how fate
works? "I kinda hope not,
Fred. I'd rather just try and take
things with Angel a day at a time,
you know? I don't know that I want the
whole fate of the free world
hanging on my love life."
Not that Angel wouldn't be used to that.
But that conjures up
memories of high school, and
She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and a certain
curse that hasn't gone anywhere. All of
a sudden I'm ready to change
the subject. "This Diet Coke stuff
is weird, isn't it? I mean, it's
less lemon-tasting than lemon-Pledge
smelling. You know?"
"No weirder than Pringles,"
Fred says, holding up one chip. "Other
chips, you know, they get to have some
individuality. They take their
own little chippy shapes, you know? But
not Pringles. They're forced
into this kind of Orwellian
uniformity." I forget how easily Fred
switches conversational tracks -- and
how easily she switches back
again. "You and Angel -- it's just
so romantic."
I shake my head and smile at her.
"And you and Gunn aren't?"
"Oh -- well, yeah --" Fred's
all blushy again, but for a new
reason. "It's not the same, though.
You and Angel are like something
out of a story. Like a medieval
romance."
I shoot her a sideways glance; that's
laying it on a little thick.
But for all that Fred's big crush on
Angel has died down, she's still
fond of romanticizing the guy. Then
again, these days, I'm starting
to see where she gets it. "Like
Lancelot and Guenevere, huh? Always
in love, but -- never with the
sex."
Sex -- never. Two words that should not
go together. Two words that
kinda have to go together, as long as
I'm with Angel.
"Never with the sex?" Fred
says, looking doubtful.
"The curse. Angel's curse.
Remember? We went over this --"
"Oh, no, I remember that," she
says, fishing one of her little hands
down to the bottom of the Pringles can
to get those last few
chips. "I mean, about Lancelot and
Guenevere."
"Come on, Fred. Didn't your parents
ever take you to see 'Camelot?'
Lancelot and Guenevere never got to get
it on."
"Well, no, not in the
musical," Fred says carefully. "But in the
original Arthurian legends, well -- you
know --"
"The sword actually got in the
stone? Gotcha," I say. "Not like
Lancelot and Guenevere then."
"Guess not," she says sadly.
**
Angel's kissing me, touching me, pulling
me close. I slide one of my
legs between his, marvel at the way his
cool skin seems to take on my
heat.
We're in bed, at least in the techincal
sense. Everyone's gone home,
Fred to Gunn's, Lorne to whatever place
he wants to while away the
evening. Connor's sound asleep. And so
there's no one in the world
but me and Angel, nothing in the world
but what we're doing to each
other.
"You're so beautiful, Cordy,"
he whispers. The same thing every man
has whispered to every woman bedded
since the dawn of time. But the
way he says it, the way he looks at my
body as he runs his hand over
my shoulder, between my breasts, to rest
on my belly -- it makes me
blink back tears.
"Hey. Are you all right?"
Big sweet dope. I'm crying out of love
and joy, and he's worried that
something's wrong. Angel is sometimes
amazing in his ability to miss
the obvious; then again, in a weird way,
that's part of his charm.
We're not naked, of course. Naked is too
much temptation. But the
last several nights, clothing has proved
to be, well, too much
clothes. So Angel's in his boxers (black
silk, very nice to the
touch), and I'm in yesterday's purchase
at Victoria's Secret, a thin,
sheer bra-and-panty set in brilliant
coral lace. To judge from the
stunned, lustful look he gave me when I
let my dress slip to the
floor, Angel likes them.
I kiss him once more, and he brings his
hands up to my breasts again,
teasing my nipples through the lace with
his fingertips. It feels so
good, but at the same time, I want even
that whisper-thin bit of lace
between us gone. I want to feel Angel's
cool skin against me, all
against me --
"I'm fine," I murmur against
his cheek. "I'm wonderful, as long as
I'm with you."
Angel doesn't respond in words. Instead
he kisses his way down my
throat -- is he tempted? I can never
tell -- to my breasts. I can
feel the wet pressure of his tongue even
through the lace, and I run
my nails down his back so that he
shivers.
To my surprise, he keeps moving down my
body -- dips his tongue into
my navel, scrapes his teeth lightly
along the edge of my panties. His
fingers slip between my legs, between
lace and skin. Oh, God.
And then he's touching me there, right
there, soft and teasing, just
the barest touch -- but I'm so hot for
him, so desperate, so close to
edge just from our making out that I
feel myself spinning toward
orgasm almost immediately. "I'm
gonna come," I gasp, giving him time
to stop.
He doesn't stop.
A few more strokes, one harder than the
next, make the white-hot
tension inside me coil up and explode
outward, heat and light and
pleasure all inside me, filling me up. I
cry out Angel's name, only
to have my voice muffled by his mouth
closing over mine again.
With heavy petting like this, who needs
sex?
**
Wesley's giving me that look. The look
that means a lecture's coming,
and I try to guess what it is this time.
He's glancing over from the
passenger seat of the car, watching me
steer toward Rick's Magic
Store, still working up toward making
this more than a simple supply
run.
The rain gets harder, and I set the
windshield wipers to going even
faster as I pull into the parking lot.
Here we go, I think, putting
the car in "Park" and reaching
for the keys. Three -- two --
"Cordelia?"
"Yeah, Wes?" I look over at
him, cock an eyebrow. He's still got that
look, halfway between "you're in
trouble" and "oh, God, don't make me
say this." I sigh and say,
"Out with it."
"I am of course happy for -- I
mean, our hearts have their reasons,
which -- I mean --" He pushes his
glasses up his nose, folds his
hands in his lap, like we were at tea or
something, and says, now
totally calm, "Are you having sex
with Angel?"
Okay. Should've seen that coming.
I stare out the windshield for a moment,
watching the water sheet
down, blurring everything. The wipers
slap back and forth, working
furiously, doing almost no good at all.
The only sound is the car
radio, Alicia Keys crooning something
sweet and sexy.
"Cordelia?" Wesley's voice is
a little firmer now. "I'm sorry to have
to ask you, but I do need an
answer."
"I get that." I run a hand
through my hair, calming myself, buying
myself another couple of seconds before
I speak again. "There's not
really a yes/no answer to that
one."
"I beg your pardon?" Wes looks
unhappy. More than that, he looks
surprised. He gave me and Angel credit
for a lot more willpower than
I would have thought. Or, as it turns
out, deserved.
So how do I put this? I try to think of
a way that isn't totally Too
Much Information. "Bill Clinton
would say no."
Wesley's jaw drops. Whoops. Too Much
Information after all. I bite my
lip, pat my fingers against the steering
wheel. Nope, this isn't
awkward.
"Cordelia -- are you quite
mad?" He means mad as in crazy. But he's
looking mad as in angry. Really angry.
"Angel's curse! You more than
any of us know what Angelus is, what
he's capable of. This is --
beyond irresponsible --"
"Hey, hey, hey. Back off. Didn't
you hear me? I mean, it's sex -- but
it's not SEX sex. Tab A has not been
introduced to Slot B."
"And, as the existence of Connor
should make utterly clear, 'Tab A'
and 'Slot B' have nothing to do with
triggering Angel's curse,"
Wesley shoots back. His voice is
dripping acid now. The lights from
the dashboard reflect off his glasses,
so I can't really see his
eyes. "It's not a matter of a
simple physical act. If it were, Angel
would have lost his soul with Darla. But
it is a matter of Angel's
happiness. If he's having a sexual
relationship with a woman he
loves --"
"Then he's still got a kid who
might be the Messiah or the
Antichrist, a crazy-ass guy from the
past out to kill him, bills to
pay, mouths to feed, and oh-so-fond
memories of hell," I reply. "And
we do stuff -- I mean, he does stuff for
me, but -- there's still a
frustration level involved for him,
okay? No guy ever got perfect
happiness while he was dealing with
blueballs. Am I right on this?"
That should at least have made Wesley
smile, even if it was his
patented,
that-was-dirty-and-I-am-British-so-I-must-pretend-not-to-
laugh smile. Instead he just leans back
in his seat, looks up at the
top of the car as though it were the
sky. We're quiet for a while,
just sitting in the car, listening to
the windshield wipers and
Alicia Keys.
Finally, he says, "When you
evaluate risks, you must take into
account both the probability of risk and
the gravity of the result.
Perhaps you're right. Perhaps you and
Angel have -- found a balance.
But if you haven't -- if you're wrong --
Cordelia, the consequences --
"
"I know all about the consequences,
okay?" This guy's total
experience with Angelus is two minutes
near an elevator shaft, and HE
wants to tell ME what Angelus is about.
Wesley's gotten on my last
nerve; my temper snaps. "Don't sit
there and lecture me about Angelus
and the curse and all of that, all
right? Angel and I are safe. We're
totally, 100% safe. Don't get all pissy
about me and Angel just
because you're the only one not getting
any."
Wesley draws back at that, presses his
lips together. I went too far,
and I know it. I think about the way his
face looked before we all
headed out to the ballet together, when
thanks to me he thought Fred
was falling for him to, and I feel like
shit. "Wesley --"
"Come on, then," he says,
getting out of the car without even
reaching for the umbrella. I can't even
see him walking away from me,
into Rick's, for all the rain.
I leave the umbrella too, run after him,
catch up with him right
before the door. We're standing together
under a tiny awning,
raindrops on his glasses, my wet hair
sticking to the back of my
neck. "Wesley, I'm sorry. I'm SO
sorry."
He doesn't react to that at first, then
gives a little one-shoulder
shrug. Wesley will let it go in a minute
-- he always does -- but he
doesn't want to. "That was
uncalled-for."
"I know it. It's just -- the
situation with me and Angel -- it's
already weird, you know? It already
hurts. And talking about it just
makes it hurt more."
"I realize that" Wesley's
voice is soft again; willing or not, he's
forgiving me. "I do want you both
to be happy, you know."
I put my arms around him, hug him so
tight his skinny bones ought to
break. He returns the embrace and
whispers into my ear, "I just want
us all to be safe."
"Me too," I say. "Me
too."
**
Water is sluicing down Angel's back,
streaming over that tattoo. Does
he have any idea how hot that thing
looks? Probably so. That's
probably why he got it. I lean forward,
kiss him right between the
shoulder blades, through the flowing
water.
He looks back at me, and even through
all the steam I can see the
laughter in his eyes. "Come
on," he says, mock-warning. "This is just
to get me warm for you."
"I like you fine cold," I say,
which is true. It's amazing the stuff
you can get used to. "But warm is
nice too."
Angel still doesn't turn to face me,
which is probably for the best,
seeing as how we are showering together.
We don't allow ourselves to
see each other naked much -- it wasn't
long ago we didn't allow it at
all -- and the temptation factor
definitely goes through the roof
when we do.
Take now, for instance. Angel is
underneath the shower nozzle,
letting steaming-hot water flow all over
him, creating a little
artificial body heat .A treat for me. I
can't see his cock, which is
a shame, because it's worth looking at.
Even more worth touching. But
I'd better wait for the boxers to get
back on before I start with
that.
What I can see is Angel's extremely firm
ass, tempting enough as it
is. I'm feeling secure -- we're at my
place, for a change -- and I'm
feeling naughty, and the hot water feels
good to me too, so I come up
close to him. I press my pelvis against
his ass, my breasts against
his back. He goes tense in an instant,
lets his head fall back.
"Cordy -- oh, God --"
His voice is already deep with arousal,
and before I can stop myself,
I let my hands slide around his waist,
dip lower, take his cock in my
hands. He's so hard for me already, so
long it takes both hands to
cover him completely. I start working
him, slowly and gently, letting
the hot water make us slippery.
Angel braces his hands against the bathroom
wall, as if he'd fall
over without it. Maybe he would. I know
my own knees are getting weak
at the feel of Angel against my palms,
the awareness of how he'd feel
inside me, if only, if only --
Suddenly he spins around, breaks free of
my grip, grabs me and kisses
me hard. I hang on to him, tilt my head
back, let him devour me with
his kisses.
It's so wrong, so unfair, that this man,
this beautiful, passionate
man can be such a good lover -- the way
he touches, the way he
kisses, I already know he's good at the
rest of it too -- and yet be
denied. So wrong that he can give me so
much pleasure and never be
allowed to take his own, to be inside
me.
All of a sudden it's just too much. I
have to have Angel inside me,
in some way. If it can't be intercourse,
then --
I drop down. The ceramic is hard against
my knees; I'll have bruises
tomorrow. I don't care. I take him in my
hands again, part my lips.
Angel puts his hand against my cheek,
stopping me. "Cordy, no," he
gasps. "We shouldn't."
He didn't say, We can't. That's
interesting. "Tell me one thing, and
tell me the truth," I whisper. The
water is still streaming down all
around us. "Did Buffy do this for
you?"
I said the name, and I see the
inevitable reaction -- that dark flash
of pain in his eyes, something that's
still there, still deep, where
I can't get at it. Or can I? "Tell
me!"
He closes his eyes. "Yes," he
says, confession and surrender all in
one. "Yes."
And that settles it. I take him into my
mouth, take him deep. Angel
shouts out, braces himself against the
wall again, and almost
immediately starts thrusting into my
mouth, finding my tempo, letting
me lead.
I work him with my lips, my tongue,
sucking hard. I've done this
before plenty of times -- Mitch, Kevin,
a couple football players who
talked too much, Devon, Xander, Wilson.
Each time it was a kind of
game, something I could do to get them
under my spell. To show how
good I was at this, or to repay what
they'd already done for me, or
to deserve the attention they were
giving me, or something.
It was never like this -- the desire to
give someone pleasure
overriding my own need. All I want in
the world right now is for
Angel to come. And as I take him in even
deeper, suck even harder, he
does, crying out my name as his hand
clenches around my shoulder,
painfully hard.
After a couple seconds, I pull myself up
-- my legs are trembly, from
emotion and strain. Angel pulls me
against him in an embrace. "Good?"
I whisper.
"Beyond good," he says, his
voice shaky.
**
"I can only afford one set of
tickets this whole season, so I gotta
choose carefully," Gunn says.
"On the one hand, 'Aida' -- that's
supposed to be totally amazing onstage.
Elephants and everything.
Can't get that off a CD. But on the
other hand, I hear 'Attila' don't
get staged that much. Not with Sam Ramey
in the lead, anyway -- what?"
"Kicking and screaming," I
laugh. "Angel had to drag you kicking and
screaming to the ballet that time! And
he created a monster."
Gunn grins and shakes his head ruefully.
"I figure my cool is shot.
At least I can be cultured, right?"
We're hanging out at his place for a
change; the interior decorating
is still Early Flophouse, but you can
tell Fred's spending a little
more time over here. He's cleaning a lot
more carefully, a couple of
plants have appeared on the windowsills,
and there's a soft throw
over the sofa that disguises the worst
tear. Wesley, Angel and Fred
are on a beer run -- with the baby, no
less. We're gonna get in
trouble for corrupting a minor one of
these days; I just know it.
Gunn's CD tower is filled with the few
hip-hop and rap disks he'd
managed to buy for himself through the
years before he knew us, and
the many classical ones he's spent his
share of the newfound wealth
on in the past two months. From ballet,
Gunn moved to opera; the
symphony can't be far behind.
"Is Fred enjoying the change of
soundtrack?" I ask, leaning back into
the sofa. "I don't think she was
wild about all the Tupac you used to
play in the car all the time."
"I think Verdi's more her
speed," Gunn says. He smiles broadly; these
days, Gunn is a happy man. New money,
new girlfriend, new
enthusiasms. For the longest time, it
seemed like he was never gonna
get over that life he'd left behind.
Personally, I still don't see
the appeal of the whole homeless-gang
thing. But it meant something
to him, something I didn't think we'd
ever quite match. But he's
reinventing himself now. Charles Gunn is
someone new, someone he
likes better than he ever did before.
I know the feeling. It's the best
feeling in the world.
His mood's good enough to try a risky
question. "How are things with
you and Wesley?"
"Better," he says easily. Good
timing, me. "I didn't realize how deep
the Fred thing went, you know? I mean, I
knew he thought she was a
hottie, but so would any other
red-blooded heterosexual man. Or even
Lorne."
"I think it went pretty deep,
though."
"Yeah, tell me about it," Gunn
says. "But he's starting to kinda
chill out, though. I think he's getting
over her."
I think Gunn's about 1000% wrong about
that, but bringing up that
subject isn't exactly going to help
things.
Gunn gives me a look, and I think he's
about to ask me just that, and
I try to think of a lie. Which is why it
totally broadsides me when
Gunn says, "You make Angel evil,
and I'm killing him."
Silence. I don't have an answer for
that. In theory, I agree with
that. Though the whole stake-you-dead
promise was a lot easier to
make before I was in love with Angel.
Gunn's got that wild look again -- the
one he had when we first met
him, when he lived on the streets. I'd
thought he'd lost it forever,
but it turns out it's just hidden, like
the rip in the sofa. He leans
forward again and says, quietly,
"And if, by any chance, Angelus
kills, rapes, maims, wounds, hits,
bruises, insults or so much as
short-sheets Fred before I get the
chance to kill him, I'm also gonna
kill you."
He leans back, takes a deep drink of the
beer he's been nursing.
After a couple seconds, Gunn glances at
me, casual again. He
shrugs. "Nothing personal."
He means it.
**
I'm still coming down off my orgasm, and
I can't speak, can't think,
can't do anything but writhe in
incoherent pleasure as Angel thrusts
inside me. He's pounding me into the
mattress, so hard it ought to
hurt, but it doesn't. Nothing's ever
felt this good, could ever feel
as good as finally, finally, finally
making love to Angel. Making
love for real. He's moving fast, so fast
any human would have come a
long time ago, but Angel's not human and
what he's doing to me, no
human's ever done or could do, oh, God,
oh, God --
I'm coming again, even harder than last
time. When I arch up against
Angel and cry out, he grimaces with a
last, desperate attempt at
control. Then he slams into me again,
one last time, and shouts as he
comes, cold inside me.
Angel's body is shaking from release as
he collapses on top of me;
his body feels so heavy and so right on
top of mine. I somehow find
the strength to slide my arms around
him, hold him close. A lovers'
embrace.
Lovers.
Oh, God.
Oh, God, no.
Angel's just had sex, just really had
sex, and it was really fuckin'
great, and I've done it. Any second now,
the man in my arms is going
to become the monster, and he's going to
kill me and he's going to
kill everybody else and it's all my
fault --
"Are you evil?" I blurt out.
Stupid question; my neck hasn't been
broken, ergo Angel is not evil. Yet.
"No," he says. He's starting
to freak out too, has that weird inward
stare, like he's trying to tell when
it's going to start.
"When do you turn evil?" I
want to push him off me, scramble away to
safety, and I hate that this is how I
feel after I just made love to
Angel.
"I -- I don't think I'm going
to," he says. Another second and he
sighs in relief. "I'm okay. It's
okay."
"You're not going to lose your
soul," I say. At first, there's only
amazing relief. And then, stupidly,
disappointment. Of course not.
Perfect happiness means true love, which
means something he had a
long time ago, which means not me.
He sees what I'm thinking, cups my cheek
in his hand. "I love you,"
he whispers. "It's not you, or how
I feel about you."
"Try me," I say. Because right
now, of all times, I don't want to
feel like second-best.
"I can't have perfect happiness if
I'm worried about Angelus," he
says. "Of course." He's
realizing this for the first time -- then
again, I guess you never know until you
try. Angel looks down into my
eyes, and there's so much love there, so
much relief, that I want to
cry. "Not even with you, as much as
I love you."
"You mean it?" Now I want to
laugh, set off fireworks, something.
Because Angel and I can make love, and
now there's nothing to stop us
from being together all night, every
night, if that's what we want. I
know I do.
"We have to remember," he
says. He's got that inward look again. "We
can't ever forget the curse, Cordy. The
minute I started feeling
good, feeling safe -- that would be when
it happened."
"Right" I draw him back
against me, smile as he snuggles his face
down into the curve of my neck. "We
won't forget."
We're both quiet for a while, and I know
we're both thinking the same
thing. What if we do? How can we help
it?
At some point, if we're not careful,
we're gonna get to feeling safe.
Maybe even if we are.
Can we keep doing this? Can we keep on
drawing and erasing and
redrawing this line in the sand until we
find our absolute limit? Or
will we go too far, get too close, and
bring our whole world crashing
down around us, until there's nothing
left?
I have a feeling we're gonna find out.
*****
End
*****
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