Fic: But It Wasn't You (C/A, NC-17)
Title: But It Wasn’t You
Author: Kelly (xlivvielockex, Livvie, LivvieLocke)
Rating: NC-17
Posted: 10/31/07
Email: jjsoapchat AT yahoo DOT com
Prompts Used: Demon brothel, darkness, masks, temptation for the Stranger Things Halloween Ficathon. Thank you to the lovely Luckylyn for the prompts.
Genre: Angst, Smut
Summary: Post NFA. Not comics compliant. After battle, all Angel wants is a little comfort. C/A implied.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: Everyplace that I can. Spread the C/A love. Whoever wants it, can have it, just credit
Notes/Warnings: Thank you to Sarah for being probably the best beta in the universe. Word Count: 1, 459. This was totally inspired by the Violent Femmes song “I Held Her In My Arms”.
He knew that he shouldn’t be here. He knew that from the moment he walked through the doors, took a mask from the half naked demon, and put it to his face. No, he knew before that. He knew when he first thought of coming here. The demon brothel would be packed on Halloween, bringing out all sorts. He was looking for one sort. One sort that the Madam had guaranteed he could find tonight, only tonight.
He put the mask to his face and moved through the crowd. He hated crowds, didn’t much care for Halloween either, but tonight was the only night he could see her, the only time she was here. He used his shoulder to push off the females as they came near him. Those that were brave enough anyway. Vampires weren’t usually allowed in here but for him, the Champion of Los Angeles, they’d made an exception. They owed him their lives, so the least they could do was give him their bodies for one night.
How many months had it been since he lost everything? He lost track of the days. There was no heartbeat, no family, no love at the end of the dark tunnel. There was only more pain and picking up the pieces. He’d been living in darkness, hidden away from the waking world. No use making more friends, replacing the lost ones - they would all eventually end up like the others. Dead.
He lowered his mask at the front desk. When he spoke, his voice was like that of a stranger’s - rough, hoarse, unfamiliar. “Is she here?”
The Madam gave him a gleeful grin and came around to the front of the desk to take his arm. “She’s been waiting for you, putting on the clothes for which you asked. You can still have her look like someone else if you want. Anyone you want. Beauty of being a shapeshifter.”
“I already told you how I want her.” He replied roughly. He couldn’t look the Madam in the eye. Not after what he had asked her and the price he was going to pay for it to be just right.
She held out her hand, and her fingers twitched with greed as she spoke. “Then, it is just a matter of payment.”
He handed her a credit card. He had a collection of those little plastic things now, taken from corpses that were causalities of war. No one cared anymore if the signatures matched as long as they got their money. He’d been using them on his infrequent trips outside, to buy food, clothing, and a cheap motel room with no windows.
The Madam knocked on the door after taking the card from him, slipping it between her pendulous breasts. She opened the door just a little. “Anytime that you are ready.”
He looked at the door. The only thing that was standing between him and damnation was a thin piece of wood. He placed his hand against the door, his eyes closing for a moment. Even here he could smell her, her scent. Not the whores, but hers. It was too much for him to take. He pushed the door open, sliding into the welcoming darkness. He shut the door behind him.
He reached for the light switch and turned his face away as light flooded the room. It only took a moment for his eyes to adjust. It was just as he remembered it. Then again, he had given them a box of drawings so that the room would be a perfect match for his suite at the Hyperion. He moved to the bed, past the chair and bookcase. He ran his hands along the linens. He could still sense her faint smell from the many nights she had spent just lying here with him. Sometimes talking, sometimes sleeping, but always together. He crushed the comforter in his fist as if he could grasp it, pull hard enough, and bring her back.
The bathroom door opened, the bathroom that he never used except to shower and brush his teeth. Mirrors and toilets were useless to someone like himself but not to her. How many times had he watched her do her makeup in his mirror or scream at him to leave so she could pee? He almost smiled, almost smiled at the sight of her in the doorway of the bathroom.
But it wasn’t her. It was her clothes, her body, her face slightly obscured by the mask that was the theme for the evening. But the smell didn’t match. The tangy musky smell that was her. No, this one was more clean, scentless, but the clothes were enough. Her scent still lingered on them. It was a memory that was burned into his brain..
“Hello salty goodness.” She pulled the mask off. She’d done her homework. It was clear she had studied the packet of information, the drawings, the sayings and quirks that he thought about every night. Worth every penny, if he could only have the memory of her for this night. A doppelganger built for an evening of sin.
It wasn’t cheating. You couldn’t cheat on a dead woman, a memory, a fantasy. He knew it wouldn’t be happiness. He hadn’t had happiness since that last day with her. True happiness was only a fantasy, a fantasy day spent with her that he relived every night when he closed his eyes.
He abandoned his death grip on the bedspread and reached for her, a drowning man flailing for the surface. He pulled her off her feet and forced her body to fall into his. He wasted no time in burying his face into her shoulder, her hair, her clothing. She’d used the shampoo he put into the package. Its scent surrounded him. Her scent. His cock hardened with anticipation. It wasn’t her, but it was enough. He could fool himself for one night.
There were no kisses. He couldn’t kiss her. She wouldn’t taste like his lost love. The lingering tingle on his lips, her sweetness, he wouldn’t destroy that with this replacement. He needed to keep the memory of their last kiss forever.
His hands groped at her breasts like a teenager during his first time. Keep the clothes on, she had to keep them on, don’t break the illusion. He needed to smell her, to close his eyes and know that he could be with the woman he loved. His last moment of happiness.
He fell with her onto the bed. A few traces of them from before lingered on the sheets. They were faint, but he could pick them up. Or maybe he was just imagining them. The time for right and wrong was lost. He was giving in, giving up.
He wanted to be gentle, like he would have taken her when he had the chance, if he hadn’t let the fear rule him, if the world hadn’t gotten in their way. He tried, pushing her skirt up gently, touching the damp heat of her sex. He wouldn’t let the whore wear her panties, not those. Those were kept in a special box filled with other mementos that he’d taken. He shouldn’t have kept them when they went to Wolfram and Hart. He knew it was wrong. But the silky feel of her panties in his hands, brushing his cock as he fisted himself roughly, were one of the few painful joys he had left.
He slipped his fingers into her, moving them as slowly as he could. He kept his face against her shoulder, her hair surrounding him. His free hand undid his slacks, pulling them down along with his underwear. He moved himself between her legs. She was ready, she was born ready. She wasn’t his girl.
He’d told the girl, he’d told her in that information that he wanted shy, reluctant, but still sexy. And here she was, panting and moving under him. She didn’t moan right. She was too practiced. She pushed too hard against him, too eager. That wasn’t how he imagined it. She wasn’t tight enough, hot enough, wet enough. She was a poor substitute.
Closing his eyes, he kept moving. His nostrils flared, almost taking in the fabric of the blouse, the scent was still strong despite its age. He thought of her smile, the way her skin had felt, how warm she had been. He thought of another life where his mission hadn’t gotten her killed, his pointless mission that killed everyone. He thought of a life with her. He wanted to make love to her, every night, as a man, until he died.
And when he climaxed, he said her name, like the last breath escaping from a dying man. “Cordelia.”
Author: Kelly (xlivvielockex, Livvie, LivvieLocke)
Rating: NC-17
Posted: 10/31/07
Email: jjsoapchat AT yahoo DOT com
Prompts Used: Demon brothel, darkness, masks, temptation for the Stranger Things Halloween Ficathon. Thank you to the lovely Luckylyn for the prompts.
Genre: Angst, Smut
Summary: Post NFA. Not comics compliant. After battle, all Angel wants is a little comfort. C/A implied.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: Everyplace that I can. Spread the C/A love. Whoever wants it, can have it, just credit
Notes/Warnings: Thank you to Sarah for being probably the best beta in the universe. Word Count: 1, 459. This was totally inspired by the Violent Femmes song “I Held Her In My Arms”.
He knew that he shouldn’t be here. He knew that from the moment he walked through the doors, took a mask from the half naked demon, and put it to his face. No, he knew before that. He knew when he first thought of coming here. The demon brothel would be packed on Halloween, bringing out all sorts. He was looking for one sort. One sort that the Madam had guaranteed he could find tonight, only tonight.
He put the mask to his face and moved through the crowd. He hated crowds, didn’t much care for Halloween either, but tonight was the only night he could see her, the only time she was here. He used his shoulder to push off the females as they came near him. Those that were brave enough anyway. Vampires weren’t usually allowed in here but for him, the Champion of Los Angeles, they’d made an exception. They owed him their lives, so the least they could do was give him their bodies for one night.
How many months had it been since he lost everything? He lost track of the days. There was no heartbeat, no family, no love at the end of the dark tunnel. There was only more pain and picking up the pieces. He’d been living in darkness, hidden away from the waking world. No use making more friends, replacing the lost ones - they would all eventually end up like the others. Dead.
He lowered his mask at the front desk. When he spoke, his voice was like that of a stranger’s - rough, hoarse, unfamiliar. “Is she here?”
The Madam gave him a gleeful grin and came around to the front of the desk to take his arm. “She’s been waiting for you, putting on the clothes for which you asked. You can still have her look like someone else if you want. Anyone you want. Beauty of being a shapeshifter.”
“I already told you how I want her.” He replied roughly. He couldn’t look the Madam in the eye. Not after what he had asked her and the price he was going to pay for it to be just right.
She held out her hand, and her fingers twitched with greed as she spoke. “Then, it is just a matter of payment.”
He handed her a credit card. He had a collection of those little plastic things now, taken from corpses that were causalities of war. No one cared anymore if the signatures matched as long as they got their money. He’d been using them on his infrequent trips outside, to buy food, clothing, and a cheap motel room with no windows.
The Madam knocked on the door after taking the card from him, slipping it between her pendulous breasts. She opened the door just a little. “Anytime that you are ready.”
He looked at the door. The only thing that was standing between him and damnation was a thin piece of wood. He placed his hand against the door, his eyes closing for a moment. Even here he could smell her, her scent. Not the whores, but hers. It was too much for him to take. He pushed the door open, sliding into the welcoming darkness. He shut the door behind him.
He reached for the light switch and turned his face away as light flooded the room. It only took a moment for his eyes to adjust. It was just as he remembered it. Then again, he had given them a box of drawings so that the room would be a perfect match for his suite at the Hyperion. He moved to the bed, past the chair and bookcase. He ran his hands along the linens. He could still sense her faint smell from the many nights she had spent just lying here with him. Sometimes talking, sometimes sleeping, but always together. He crushed the comforter in his fist as if he could grasp it, pull hard enough, and bring her back.
The bathroom door opened, the bathroom that he never used except to shower and brush his teeth. Mirrors and toilets were useless to someone like himself but not to her. How many times had he watched her do her makeup in his mirror or scream at him to leave so she could pee? He almost smiled, almost smiled at the sight of her in the doorway of the bathroom.
But it wasn’t her. It was her clothes, her body, her face slightly obscured by the mask that was the theme for the evening. But the smell didn’t match. The tangy musky smell that was her. No, this one was more clean, scentless, but the clothes were enough. Her scent still lingered on them. It was a memory that was burned into his brain..
“Hello salty goodness.” She pulled the mask off. She’d done her homework. It was clear she had studied the packet of information, the drawings, the sayings and quirks that he thought about every night. Worth every penny, if he could only have the memory of her for this night. A doppelganger built for an evening of sin.
It wasn’t cheating. You couldn’t cheat on a dead woman, a memory, a fantasy. He knew it wouldn’t be happiness. He hadn’t had happiness since that last day with her. True happiness was only a fantasy, a fantasy day spent with her that he relived every night when he closed his eyes.
He abandoned his death grip on the bedspread and reached for her, a drowning man flailing for the surface. He pulled her off her feet and forced her body to fall into his. He wasted no time in burying his face into her shoulder, her hair, her clothing. She’d used the shampoo he put into the package. Its scent surrounded him. Her scent. His cock hardened with anticipation. It wasn’t her, but it was enough. He could fool himself for one night.
There were no kisses. He couldn’t kiss her. She wouldn’t taste like his lost love. The lingering tingle on his lips, her sweetness, he wouldn’t destroy that with this replacement. He needed to keep the memory of their last kiss forever.
His hands groped at her breasts like a teenager during his first time. Keep the clothes on, she had to keep them on, don’t break the illusion. He needed to smell her, to close his eyes and know that he could be with the woman he loved. His last moment of happiness.
He fell with her onto the bed. A few traces of them from before lingered on the sheets. They were faint, but he could pick them up. Or maybe he was just imagining them. The time for right and wrong was lost. He was giving in, giving up.
He wanted to be gentle, like he would have taken her when he had the chance, if he hadn’t let the fear rule him, if the world hadn’t gotten in their way. He tried, pushing her skirt up gently, touching the damp heat of her sex. He wouldn’t let the whore wear her panties, not those. Those were kept in a special box filled with other mementos that he’d taken. He shouldn’t have kept them when they went to Wolfram and Hart. He knew it was wrong. But the silky feel of her panties in his hands, brushing his cock as he fisted himself roughly, were one of the few painful joys he had left.
He slipped his fingers into her, moving them as slowly as he could. He kept his face against her shoulder, her hair surrounding him. His free hand undid his slacks, pulling them down along with his underwear. He moved himself between her legs. She was ready, she was born ready. She wasn’t his girl.
He’d told the girl, he’d told her in that information that he wanted shy, reluctant, but still sexy. And here she was, panting and moving under him. She didn’t moan right. She was too practiced. She pushed too hard against him, too eager. That wasn’t how he imagined it. She wasn’t tight enough, hot enough, wet enough. She was a poor substitute.
Closing his eyes, he kept moving. His nostrils flared, almost taking in the fabric of the blouse, the scent was still strong despite its age. He thought of her smile, the way her skin had felt, how warm she had been. He thought of another life where his mission hadn’t gotten her killed, his pointless mission that killed everyone. He thought of a life with her. He wanted to make love to her, every night, as a man, until he died.
And when he climaxed, he said her name, like the last breath escaping from a dying man. “Cordelia.”