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She kissed him.

Fingers in his hair, drawing him close, drawing closer herself, until their chests pressed together and noses bumped and she turned her head so her lips were on his.

Cordelia closed her eyes.

Soft, at first, lips on his and pressing down--but a moment later, those lips parted, yielding and warm, still tasting faintly of the honeyed, spiced red wine she had sipped earlier.

Edited (Because sometimes my writing is pretty terrible) 2013-05-14 17:10 (UTC)

In another time, another place, another situation, another set of circumstances, he could have slipped her any number of poisons now--by her own mouth, through her skin. He could have magicked up any number of traps or torments for her to rise up and catch her even now. He could have thrown her against the floor and either taken her or shattered her skull or both, as it pleased him. He could still.

But she was soft--soft, soft. All curves and sweet tastes. Red wine and red lips. Salt sweat and bitter fear and anxiety and panic and anger and sweet wine. He held her a little tighter. She was soft--soft, soft.

And she had given her word and she had kept her half of the bargain. Brave girl. Clever girl. Maybe he'd even keep his half of it.

Maybe.

He kept the kiss longer than one might have wanted it (longer than she might have wanted it? that's up to her, of course). But, not without a parting glance, he nipped at her lip. And now smiled again.

"There. And because you were a good girl and did what I asked--" he brought his left hand, open, between them "--I'll keep my promise too."

He smiled again, wider this time. He closed his empty hand, opened it again, and suddenly the key lay in his palm. (Sleight of hand, a conjuror's trick, scarcely different from the little magic show he'd put on for Lloyd back in the day--and that was a locked door too, wasn't it?)

"Off you go. Fly away, dove."

She was still waiting for her heartbeat to still when he offered up the key.

What was that? She despised him. Completely and utterly, no question there. And she wasn't the sort to believe that everyone had a kind, warm, gooey center. The world wasn't made of hearts of gold with steel casings. There were bad, bad people and he was one of them.

Brief lapses of humanity, that was all you could hope to get. Moments of kindness between all the instances of cruelty.

She hated him. But, and she couldn't begin to explain why, Cordelia kissed him again. She reached out, she took the key in her hands, and she kissed the horrible, terrible, really genuinely godawful man a second time, eyes open this time and hand still on the key.

It was unexpected, but not unwelcome. He answered in kind, warmly (warmly as he could, at least). And this time he let one hand slip across her face and over her ear to twine in her hair. His other hand closed over hers, the hand that held the key.

Again, he let it linger and again, when he broke away, he smiled. Broke away, yes, but didn't pull away entirely.

"Now," he whispered almost against her ear, "What brought that on?"

"There doesn't need to be a reason."

An excuse, because she couldn't begin to explain why she had. You did need a reason. Maybe not for just any kiss, when drunk or with a partner or under the mistletoe, but you needed a reason to kiss a man who was undeniably evil.

And she didn't have one. What did that mean?

Sure, he was attractive. Charismatic, too. So was Ted Bundy.

Run, her brain insisted. Take the key, stand up, get the fuck out of here. Instead, she remained on her knees, feeling the coolness of the key and the warmth of his palm and wondering if she really had gone completely, totally insane.

He let go of her hand, left her with the key. Keys, locks, doors. Same old same old. Il triello. Some things never change, do they? Keys and locks and doors. Still--he let her hold the key and slipped that hand down to her waist. Still holding her, still too close. He found the curve of her neck under her hair and kissed it.

"You have the key," he whispered. "You're free, as far as I'm concerned. Whether you go or stay," he kissed her neck again, "Is up to you."

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe people could change. Maybe if she helped him, maybe if she gave him the benefit of the doubt...

No. She had told him herself that she wasn't stupid, so it was time to stop acting like she was.

"You did this," she accused, knowing full well it was nothing but plain old attraction, old as Adam and Eve. "It's a spell."

Despite the accusation, Cordy leaned her head to the side, exposing her throat, too distracted to think about the implications of that particular movement.

"A spell?" he asked with almost-but-not-quite overblown incredulity, all big blue country-boy eyes. He pressed against her throat, which she so readily offered--but no teeth, no teeth. No, no teeth.

"A spell," he said again, this time while drawing a line of kisses down the length of her jaw.

"Was it words?" A kiss on her throat. "A gesture?" Another. "A line of chalk?" Another. "Was it because you passed behind that altar? Maybe that was it." Three more.

"So you're not locked up anymore. You're just spellbound." And he found her mouth again.

She made some noise, meant to express indignation that he was making fun of her and to excuuuuse her~~, princess~~ for not knowing how it was that his magic worked, but he had just made a key appear out of nowhere, hadn't he?

Whatever it was, the sound was swallowed up as he kissed her and she kissed him back as if he were any boy, as if she were any girl.

She took handfuls of his shirt in her empty hand, bunching the fabric and releasing it again, groaning into his mouth out of sheer frustration--as the key slipped from her palm and fell to the floor with a clang, rolling away from her reach.

And so the key fell ringing to the floor. He heard it fall, heard the musical clanging of metal on stone. So it often went: when one had freedom literally in one's own hands, one so often let it fall--unthinkingly, unaware, one let it fall. It was her own doing. She had had it in her hand and she had let it go. You will reap what you sow.

He caught her shoulders, hooked his fingers just under her shoulder blades, and pushed her against the door--not hard, not roughly, but certainly firmly. Not once did his mouth leave hers--not for any length of time that matters, only for as long as it took to catch a breath and start another kiss.

She knew a little now of his two great loves (call them that, sure). Probably best that she didn't know of the scores of women who, over so many long years, had taken him to their beds.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Yeah, the still rational and increasingly annoyed portion of her mind agreed. That's where this is going, moron.

Definitely moronic, definitely should be stopped. But instead, her body decided it made more sense to let him push her to the door, let him kiss her. It decided to bite his lip instead of pulling away, tug on his hair instead of pushing him back, moan into his mouth instead of demanding he stop.

Nothing like making a decision with the full and total realization that you'll hate yourself for it soon.

Nothing like! Mostly because he was making a decision with the full and total realization that he would not hate himself for it soon. So, therefore: nothing like her situation at all.

He kept her up against the door, but decided (still not hating himself for it!) it would be a better scene all around if he cupped her face in his hands--gently, softly, as a lover might. She can grip and tug and pull and groan and he would hold her gently and admire her soft skin and her soft soft soft hair. No biting here (not yet, at least), but perhaps his tongue dabbled and touched at her lips.

They certainly could have been something. There was no denying that. Especially not now.

Somehow, the way he was doing that, holding her like that, it was ten times more disturbing than the rest. This man, this man who had talked about dismemberment and murder and dead, crazy wives? Being tender and gentle and caressing her skin? It was twisted.

But apparently, twisted was what she was into right now. Because she didn't ask him to stop, didn't wrench away.

"Tell me," she breathed against his lips. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you," he breathed in reply. "I want you. Of course I want you." Another kiss. "How could I not? How could I not long for this beautiful, clever, bold woman?" He left off her mouth and slipped kisses now along her neck and behind her ear. "I want you. I want to hold you, I want to feel you move. I want to touch you." Well, he was doing that already. "I want to taste you." A kiss to punctuate that declaration because, well, see above. "I want the scent of your skin. I want the curve of your back. I want to see your eyes. I want you."

I want you to want me. I need you to need me. Not the most opportune time to remember that little ditty but, hey. Chicks dig Cheap Trick.

Oh, Cordy. That ego was bound to get you in trouble someday. Apparently that time had arrived, because the declaration was enough to make her growl, grab his hips and yank him close, kiss him again.

Okay, so he was bad. She'd already reminded herself of that, lots of times. The other facts needed to be explored.

One, she wanted him. Had been attracted to him for a long time, no denying that.

Two, it was her mistake to make.

Third, he was incredibly old and incredibly powerful, from everything she had learned, and yes, this was flattering in some dark, horrible way.

"Altar," she pulled away to demand. "The floor is freezing."

Chicks dig bad boys too. That's a truth universally acknowledged.

She pulled away, he pulled her close again. "You're right. It is cold down here."

He collected her gently in his arms and drew her up to her feet.

"Do you think the altar" since that's what she was calling it "will be much better?"

Still, he was pulling her across the floor with him. It might still be cold--he didn't care. It was certainly more symbolic. That much was certain.

She had been so eager to get out of here. She'd just wanted to be free. Now the key was lying on the floor and she was absolutely not leaving, not for anywhere with a down comforter or mattress. Not for warmth.

Cold was what she deserved right now and that aside, she wouldn't risk anyone seeing her, with him, like this.

She followed along, laughing suddenly, not even sure why.

"Tell me something horrible you've done," she said. "Something really bad. Kicking puppies or, I don't know, blinding an old woman."

A reminder, this time. She felt like she needed to remind herself of all that, of who he was. She was going forward with this, but not with the nice widower he'd pretended to be. With the real, honest to goodness creature he was.

Edited 2013-05-15 16:27 (UTC)

Now he laughed and trailed his fingers gently across her face, smoothing her cheeks with his thumbs. He smiled and looked into her eyes (and they really were pretty eyes, for all that, it was true).

"I killed a king," he whispered over her, now stroking her hair just as softly as he had touched her face. "I poisoned him in his nightly cup of wine with a poison that burned him from the inside out. It took three days before he died. Will that do?"

"That'll do."

It chilled her, and for a terrifying flicker of a moment, she wasn't sure if the shiver she gave was for the right reasons or the wrong.

"Help me up," she asked, placing the heel of her right hand against the altar.

"With pleasure."

It was easy to hoist her up onto the altar: just hands around her back, hands around her hips, an easy lift, and holding on good and tight was certainly necessary.

He kept his feet on the ground for a moment and amused himself with her legs, stroking the tops of her thighs, tracing the curve of her hips. He leaned against her knees and looked at her, kindly, openly (because it made for better contrast with his stories).

"I was an executioner once too. I can't tell you how many men--and women, for that matter--I put to death. Maybe I could, if I thought about it. But I remember the swing and fall of the axe, and the sounds of the crowds come to watch."

"Why?" she asked, watching him, watching his eyes and face and most curiously, at those hands that had done so many terrible things.

"Why were you an executioner? Just for fun? Just to watch heads roll?"

She shucked off her shoe, toe to heel and kicking one red pump off, then the other. They clattered onto the floor, loud and bright against the gray stone of the floor.

"Well, someone has to do it," he said, laughing. "It's not a bad job. It's a necessary thing in many places. And an honorable profession. And, besides, the executioner gets his fee--from one side or the other. From the friends of the condemned to keep the axe sharp, from the enemies of the condemned to keep it dull."

He looked down at his hands, then up at her again.

"Do you want more stories or shall I climb up there next to you?"

Capitalism, then? Well, couldn't fault him for that one, really. Not when she had always been the one pushing for Angel to charge people for saving them.

Cordy didn't answer, but she laid back on the altar, knees up, hair spreading around her head like a dark halo, while her arms curled up above.

Either presenting herself as a virgin (ha!) sacrifice or waiting for Leonardo DiCaprio to come paint her.

He would take that as an invitation, thank you very much, and so hopped up there himself. He shook his boots off to let them lie with her shoes (hey, nice little referential pun there, when one thought about it...if shoes were wont to copulate; fucking shoes).

Well, anyway: he sat there alongside her, leaning over her, considering her again, and twining a lock of her hair in his fingers. Another smile--one of his sweeter, more charming ones.

"Look at you. How did you get yourself into this strange set of circumstances?"

And he bent to kiss her again.

She allowed it. Not much point in pushing him away now, was there? She'd surrendered easily. Like Caesar, he had come and seen and conquered (although perhaps not all as of yet and not in that order). If she was parting her legs for the man who had laughed and said what a handsome torso she would make, then why not lips? Much less intimate, after all.

Still a betrayal, though.

"Would you still want me," Cordelia asked against his lips, "If Bert didn't?"

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