// Ready Aim
Disclaimer: The characters of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer and Angel are not mine and belong to Warner Brothers, Twentieth Century Fox, Mutant Enemy. They are used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.
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Feedback is incredibly welcome.
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Angel/Fred in a stolen moment during Angel S4's "The Magic Bullet." NC-17.
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He had never imagined that Fred's hands would be so sure in their desperation, fumbling around his pants. He ought to have known better: she had aim, she had aim, she had aim, and right now they both knew exactly what her purpose was. He whispered her name, half a question, half a warning--
"Don't tell me what's wrong or right," she said, as though he had asked something else entirely. Her hair fell around her face and obscured her eyes. He teased out several strands and curled them around his fingers. "Don't tell me about time," she said, "there's always plenty of time if you hold still long enough and--" She found what she wanted. He tensed. Her mouth closed around his cock. They were ready for each other.
Holding still was something he could do, although it reminded him of that cage and the shades of dark in the depths of the sea. He wouldn't have minded tasting her mouth, sweetness and blood so, so close to the surface. Wouldn't have minded tasting something--someone--that had nothing of Cordelia about her: a different strength, a mind that worked in relentless circles homing toward a bullseye that no one else could see. Was that what she was looking for, here? Someone who wasn't Wesley, someone who wasn't Gunn, someone who wasn't a person at all?
"They'll find us," he said, thinking of Cordelia with her eyes wiped shut, of Jasmine with red holes in her--blood that smelled so human, yet woke a profound unhunger in him--of Connor and the heat of metal, gun ready to hand. He and Fred might, if they failed, be the only people outside of Jasmine's thrall, be the only people able to live or love or fuck outside that incestuous collective. Shared wounds, shared words, shared thoughts. Experiences. Fred's head tilted as she took him in deeper, and he lost the implications. Good.
She withdrew and rose, and he breathed faster, unable, as ever, to forget the pattern of human arousal. They weren't done. They had to hurry. He caught her arms and swung her around, pressing her against the wall. She made a sound; it wasn't pain. Her hands, pulling her pants down for him, remained steady. He (I am not I) had smiled at her from behind that other cage's bars, speaking of the things she said to Gunn, the cries that had escaped her at night. Was she remembering that as he shoved himself into her? He was forgetting how to be gentle. But this was not a gentle woman. He had a hole in him, the bullet she had put in him.
She could be silent after all. He drove himself harder into her. With another woman, at another time, he would have wanted skin and silk and slow torments.
They kissed after all, or rather, his mouth covered the words she hissed. Pleasure, protest, it might have been both. He was not good at distinctions right now. And her hips, narrow as they were, knew the rhythms of fucking, had already adapted to him and their awkward position.
He came. She did not. They could both tell.
He looked at her, wondering. She remained steady. Then he knew: there wasn't any other way to fire a gun and still hit the target. She had what she wanted; he had what he needed. She was not Cordelia. Even Cordelia was not Cordelia. And they needed Cordelia's blood to free the others. They couldn't afford for him to hesitate (again) or to think of her as someone he could still save, someone who would love him, not after he had--
Fucking had always been the fastest way of getting a point across to him.
"Let's go," he said.
She was already prepared.
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