Summary: Angel doesn't have the luxury of being anything more than a friend.
Notes: I'm always writing from Angel's pov so I thought I'd try to get in Cordy's head.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
FB and concrit are always welcome.
Another life and death fight, another dark alley. Thrown against Angel’s body during the death throes of yet another gross, slimy demon, Cordelia becomes suddenly conscious of the hard thigh she straddled as he lay under her, the chest she pushes against muscled and firm beneath her hands, like cool marble.
He hesitated for just the slightest second, hands still on her hips, and an ache flared to life where her flesh was pressed to his thigh. She savors the contact for one long moment before rolling off with a nervous laugh.
Later that night, she wakes up twisted in the sheets with nipples tightened to sensitive points and a damp ache between her legs, some half-remembered dream making her heart trip in her chest.
The next day at work, she sits at her desk and scrolls through the demon database, searching for a particular set of identifying marks for an older case they couldn’t solve. Angel moves past her desk and her eyes track him, doing a slow crawl across his broad shoulders.
Later on, he leans in too close over her shoulder while she points to what she unearthed and she catches the scent of his cologne, and draws in a deeper than needed breath.
He pauses for a beat before continuing his theory.
At three in the morning, Cordelia lies and stares at her ceiling in the darkness of her bedroom. She aches, a throb between her thighs that prevents her from sleeping. She doesn’t really want to touch herself, but can’t think of any other way to gain some relief and finally, she just does.
Five minutes later she orgasms, but it doesn’t satisfy her.
When Angel calls her into his office, she’s reluctant to go but he’s impatient, so she grabs her notebook and pen, praying he won’t be able to sense anything.
Pulling a chair up next to his, she watches as he reads from an old tome, jotting down the appropriate information, but she’s drawn to his forefinger as it keeps his place on the tiny script, watches as it smoothes down the vellum, and wonders suddenly, how it would feel running that same motion down her spine.
She shivers slightly, and he spares a glance at her.
“Everything okay?” He asks, all business.
“Umhmm,” she nods, afraid to speak. He blinks once and goes back to the book.
She wonders what was keeping Wes. There couldn’t be that many old bookstores in LA that carry talisman made from dragons bones.
She doesn’t want to be alone with Angel anymore. She can’t trust her feelings, can’t trust her body to behave within smelling distance of a vampire who can’t have sex.
She gets up, excusing herself to go to the bathroom.
When she comes out, he’s standing right outside the door and she jumps a foot.
“Crap! Angel, you scared me!”
He just looks at her with unblinking, unreadable eyes.
“Cordelia,” he begins, “it’s obvious something’s wrong-“
She ducks her head, not wanting to look at him. She’s frustrated and still aroused from last night’s half assed attempt at self-gratification, and she prays for death because any second he’s going to become aware of the state she’s in, and she’d rather be shoveling shit in a ditch in the worst part of hell than have to see the instant rejection in his face.
Because it wouldn’t be about the curse.
It would be about Buffy and how no one was ever going to compare to her or the soul-stealing sex that she inspired.
“I’m fine.” She smiles at him but he doesn’t buy it, frowning at her like some school teacher who just caught her doing something wrong, but didn’t know what.
“If you need to talk,” he offers.
“Nothing’s wrong Angel. It’s just-“she pauses and thinks, “It’s been a while since I went out with the girls, had a good time. I might call them up, go out clubbing.”
She thought he’d be okay with that, smile and accept her reasoning, but his frown only deepens. He blinks and looks away, and when he glances back, he looks slightly pissed, jaw clenching.
“Have a good time in what way?” He makes his question into an accusation and she doesn’t like the tone of it.
“Well, in the way that you wouldn’t know anything about since you chomped on a gypsy girl back in the powered wig days,” she snaps back. She regrets it instantly, watches his face close up, but doesn’t take it back.
She walks back to her desk without another word.
He doesn’t say anything else to her the rest of the evening.
At nine, she closes her notes and stands up with her purse.
“Wes, I won't be in tomorrow morning.” She says loud enough for Angel to hear, then leaves before Wes can question her.
She stumbles in the hallway of her building, half drunk on margaritas. She thought it might numb her a little, but the throbbing in her body worsened with each glass. The guys at the clubs were eager to help her with her unspoken problem but she found something wrong with every one of them.
One was too short, and one was blonde. Another dressed too brightly. The last one smiled too much.
When she realized she was comparing them to Angel, she sobered up enough to call a cab home, telling her friends she was partied out.
Now the damn lock kept moving whenever she went near it with the key and she had to steady herself with one hand braced against the wall next to her door because the floor kept trying to pull her down.
A hand clamped over her mouth.
She takes a deep breath to scream but is hauled back against a hard body, another arm clamping across her ribs.
A voice shushes her and it sounds so much like Angel she relaxes in his grip.
But before she can turn in his arms, he’s opening her door and shoving her inside, holding her to keep her from falling.
A kaleidoscope of her walls and furniture spin by and then Cordelia finds herself face down on the couch, her coat stripped from her body in one motion.
She shuts her eyes against the spinning room as big chilly hands run up her legs, smoothing over her stockings and raising the back of her skirt.
There’s a mouth traveling over her shoulder, up her neck to stop at her ear.
“Is this what you went out looking for, Cordelia?”
One hand reaches between her legs and cups her mound. Shock sobers her just a little, warring with the alcohol hazing everything into a dream-like state, but she feels the fingers rub against the cotton of her panties, and it sets a violent fluttering in her womb, uncontrollable, and she feels herself getting impossibly wet before the hand disappears.
Her panties are lowered midthigh and a body slips between her open legs, the hand stealing back up under her pelvis, fingers slicking through her folds, spearing her. Cordelia’s eyes open wide and she rocks against the sensation, hips driving into the cushions as his thumb rubs her clitoris. Another hand scrapes her shirt up, dragging her lace-covered bra with it before cupping one breast, fingers rolling over her nipple, creating a pulling sensation between her breast and clitoris.
His erection rides the cleft of her ass, and she arches into his hardness, thrusting up and then down, feeling the pressure build up in her body, rocketing towards orgasm.
Then his hand comes up from her breasts to her mouth, muffling her throaty moans, and she slips his thumb in her mouth, sucking hard on the skin. She hears him panting in her ear.
The fingers in her cleft work her like an instrument, coaxing her flesh to give up more, spreading her wetness before gliding over her folds, every stroke like lightning striking.
Then it seizes her, breaking like a star bursting, the contractions strong from her clit to her womb, muscles clenching his fingers as she screams into the palm of his hand, dying inside.
He rides it out, rubs her clit in long sweeps to bring her down, calm her gently. The alcohol is pulling her under to a dreamless sleep as he pulls his fingers out of her.
She lifts her head to the side and the last thing she sees before she’s pulled under for the last time is Angel kneeling by the couch, sucking his fingers into his mouth, tasting her as he skewers her with eyes still hungry, still restless.
The next day, Cordelia stays mostly at her desk, feeling the disturbing blend of an achy head and a satiated body.
Thinks it was a dream but then isn’t so sure.
Images assail her, threaten her equilibrium but she fakes it pretty good.
But all the while she listens for his footsteps.
When she comes back from lunch, he’s sitting at his desk, staring at the scroll he stole from Wolfram & Hart.
She clears her throat delicately and he looks up.
“Cordelia, good, come in here and take some notes while Wesley translates. I’ve got a meeting in half an hour with an informant.”
His voice is distant again and she freezes for a second before shaking off the disappointment.
Of course it wasn’t real, she thinks.
He stands and pulls on his coat, pausing as he passes her.
“Is everything okay? Did you have a good night?”
She glances sharply at him, but doesn’t see anything in his face but the concern of a friend.
“Yes, it was good,” she replies punitively as she picks up her notebook and pens, moving to walk around him.
“Good.” He whispers.
The edge of his coat brushes the bare skin of her upper arm.
She shivers but doesn’t look back.
Did ya ever have the feeling you're writing the same thing over and over again?