Summary: Angel helps with Cordy’s bath.
Dedication: Damnskippytoo. I tried to make it fluffy, and I almost did. Almost.
Notes: this was a pwp that I’ve wanted to write since the loofah comment in WiTW. Not beta’d, so mistakes are mine.
Spoilers: None, but the time is between s1 and s2. They’ve been living together all summer.
Feedback: You'd all tell me if it sucks, right?
She limps into the apartment, following Angel who shuts the door gently as if it the noise will set off her temper.
She doesn’t need a trigger.
“You had to provoke that stupid demon until he spewed, didn’t you?”
She lobs the first volley, hoping he’ll lob it back. She needs a good fight to work off her anger. But Angel won’t co-operate, she can tell by the set of his shoulders before he turns to face her.
It’s all he says as he shrugs out of his coat and drapes it across her easy chair, slumping down tiredly. His clothes are as shredded as hers, but the only streaks that mar the fabric of his shirt and trousers are sewer water and dirt.
She’s the one wearing the remnants of dead demon gook.
She rolls her eyes and stalks past him.
If he’s not gonna fight her, she’s going to soak the stink away in a hot bath.
He can heat his own blood, for once.
Sinking down, eyes heavy from the candlelight, she arches her neck against the small pillow Dennis slipped behind her head and sighs.
Angel has been living with her for eight weeks.
The apartment is small, made for a single occupant. Angel’s shoulders span the doorways; his body takes up the length and breadth of her bed. When he stands next to her in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and telling her the best way to make beef stew, she feels crowded against the sink, barely able to move.
Barely able to breathe.
This can’t be good, she thinks. The panicked, drowning feeling she has when he stands next to her, head bent down to hear her whispers when she can’t speak from the pain in her head after a vision.
The soft look in his eyes when he takes her elbow and leads her to a chair, kneeling in front of her as if he’s about to begin his prayers. His eyes are so dark and so deep, so full of sorrow that she wants to cry for him.
Instead she gets angry, and complains about his books on her table and the way he pulls the sheets out of the mattress when he sleeps.
How he folds the towels so that the designs face the same direction.
The water soothes her nerves, and Dennis begins to run the loofah sponge in soft brushes up and down her thigh, as if he were painting a picture with water.
The action makes her shiver and she smiles slightly, moving her hand to still the movement.
“No,” she whispers.
When her hand encounters solid flesh, she gasps in surprise, eyes flying open.
Angel is kneeling next to the tub, stripped to his wife beater. His arm flexes cleanly as he pulls against her hold.
“Angel.” She whispers it like a prayer. He looks grim, lips parted as if he expects her rejection.
“Let me,” he says, tugging against her hold.
Just like that, her limbs obey, her hand falling down into the water. He resumes his slow caress, running the roughened material in long strokes, from her knee to mid-thigh.
When her head becomes too heavy to hold up, she falls back against the pillow, eyes lazy as she watches Angel touch her.
His eyes are coolly detached, as if he is not involved with the proceedings, merely his hand.
She bites her lip as the rough sponge strokes higher.
When he curves it along her inner thigh, she surges, her chest rising with her breath. The water laps gently in response, the only other sound in the room besides her breathing.
Her body opens to him, legs falling apart as the sponge reaches for the heart of her pulse, rubbing against her flesh, pushing hard against her swollen clit in a rhythm that makes her inner walls quiver for more.
Her body tightens by degrees, stroke by stroke, until she grabs his wrist in a silent plea, digging her fingernails in. He relaxes his grip on the sponge, letting it float away as he uses his fingers now to make her keen, head arching back in helpless need.
He kisses her, eyes open and observant, stroking her tongue with his like what he’s doing with his hand between her legs.
When he uses two fingers inside of her, and brushes his thumb over her clit, once, twice –
The orgasm hits her with the suddenness of a thunder clap, and she seizes, crying into his mouth as she shakes, thighs clamped on his forearm, pelvis reaching up for more of him.
When there’s no more left to give, when he’s wrung from her everything he can, she slumps back into the water, and nearly sinks under. He follows, reaching down until his arms curl under her back and legs.
He lifts her gently, taking her from the water and wrapping her in a robe before carrying her into her room and tucking her into the bed he left rumpled when he got up six hours before.
She’s too weak to ask him to stay, to ask him about the curse. She can only watch as he backs away from her, the front of his body as wet as she was, dripping water onto her carpet.
At the door, he stares, eyes burning like black fire, and then he turns and leaves.
She closes her eyes and drifts off, curling into the blankets and the scent of him that remains on the sheets.