Six Times Angel Never Went Down on Cordelia
Rating: G. *blinks* Not. NC-17. Duh.
Summary: see the title.
Disclaimer: not mine. Fox, ME, Joss Whedon
Notes: Written for my second love (the first being C/A) ca_atlast
, and posted here because…it’s my journal.Sunnydale
She came over because she wanted to tell him not to be such a pussy – either he stayed away from Buffy or he left town. End of story. He couldn’t risk their lives anymore flirting with disaster and she knew the look of a well satisfied woman.
And Buffy was satisfied.
What she hadn’t counted on was Angel’s lack of tolerance for anyone not Buffy.
That, and the fact that he had always liked her in her cheerleading uniform.
He told her in no uncertain terms to mind her own business, and keep her mouth shut about what he did and didn’t do with Buffy. All the while his eyes raked her, licking his lips like a hungry cat looking at a bowl of cream.
She was oblivious, a first for her. She had no idea Angel noticed anyone else but
Suffice it to say, she screamed out her surprise a few minutes later while his head was buried between her legs, licking her cream with a tongue most definitely not feline.
She stumbled out of his mansion an hour later, her cheerleading skirt askew and the shoelaces of one shoe undone.
She could hide the hickeys with some make-up.
One thing was for certain, though.
She was completely over
Xander Harris. LA, season one
She hadn’t stopped crying, even in her sleep, and he was glad he hadn’t sent her home. Dennis was good company but even he couldn’t help Cordelia while she mourned Doyle.
He sat down next to her shaking form, her head buried in his pillows. She’d wanted something of Doyle’s but he couldn’t risk going to the dead seer’s apartment, not while she was so vulnerable.
She lifted her head at the weight of his palm resting on her bare hip, and gazed at him with tearful eyes, salt tracks on her cheeks.
“It hurts so much Angel,” she whispered in a watery voice. “Make it stop, please.”
He sighed, fighting his own grief, unable to find the words or gestures to help her along. He’d never comforted anyone but Buffy and before that, he’d always been the cause of grief, never on this end of things.
When Darla or Dru got sad, he brought them pretty things, pretty girls.
Either that or he’d…….
His fingers curled into the waistband of her yoga pants, pulling them down. He leaned over and pressed his open lips on the skin over her hipbone, tracing a path his hands cleared as he pulled her pants lower.
She made a sound of confusion, but didn’t stop him. Instead, she turned over onto her back and let him pull her thong down along with her pants, her legs falling open among his rumpled sheets and blankets.
He settled his upper body between her limbs, lifting one thigh onto his shoulder while he bent his head.
She stared at the ceiling while Angel’s mouth drove thoughts of any kind from her mind, soothing her, giving her a respite from her grief.
She tasted like tears and musk, and when she came, it was like a balloon releasing its air, and she slumped into his mattress.
When he looked up, she was already asleep.
He covered her with a blanket and forced himself to walk away.LA, season two
She told him to leave and he did, but only so he could break into her apartment and wait for her in the dark.
When she came home and found him on her couch, she told him to go.
She went into the bathroom and undressed, stepping into the water Dennis had turned on for her. The heat was nearly scalding but she barely felt it.
Not like she felt his gaze through the shower curtain where he stood by the bathroom door.
She stopped soaping and rinsed off, ripping the curtain back.
He rushed her like a dog spotting a hunk of raw meat, lifting her around the waist and getting into her shower fully clothed.
He didn’t kiss her. He just dropped to his knees and jammed a shoulder between her legs, opening her to his ravenous mouth.
She tasted bitter and soapy and he laved her flesh with his tongue, making the juice flow down his throat like wine, like blood. He nipped at her lips but she never flinched. He was dead to her in her heart, in more ways than one, and if her body still needed him, well.
She could separate the two pretty well.
When she came, she dug her nails into his shoulders but didn’t utter a sound.
He stood up and got out of her shower, dripping water all over her bathroom floor.
She pulled the curtain closed and didn’t watch him leave.
It was over. LA, season three
It wasn’t him.
Not his fingers, his tongue.
Only spirit energy, echoes of the past.
He palmed her breasts, teasing the tips of her nipples until she writhed on the couch of a dead, but not gone, dancer, and repeated the thought.not them
Then he worked his way down her body eagerly, expertly, leaving no thought in her head save that he was not
When his tongue slipped into the flesh between her legs, the pleasure built in her cunt, her body. When he sucked her clit, laving it with his tongue, her hips arched up, sought the orgasm eagerly.
When the goons with the funny faces interrupted, she fell of that cliff and hit the ground hard, her
body still aching, and frantically thoughtnot them, not them
When she went to bed that night, alone, her fingers between her legs, finally then, she thought…
Maybe it was - them
She shuddered and came.LA, season four
She promised him a ride if he played well with the others.
He kept his bargain.
To his surprise, so did she.
Came into his cell with a cross sharpened at the ends and her body naked underneath one of his sweaters.
He spared a thought that every one of the do-gooders upstairs must be raiding his closet while he was shackled like a dog that had wet the carpeting.
He smirked and reached for her but she drew back and warned him that if she saw his fangs, she’d give him a tattoo no one would be able to remove, and waved the cross at him.
He flinched and nodded, and she let him yank her down to the ground, falling on top of her, already lifting the hem of his sweater away.
She tucked an arm under her head, held the cross threateningly on her belly and watched.
He knew it wasn’t Cordelia.
She would never have made that bargain with him, no matter how many lives were at stake.
But it was still her body, and he’d never get a chance like this again, not while he was soulled because the soul was a neutered puppy in more ways than one, and the real Cordelia was too principled
to act on the attraction he knew she felt.
He spread her cunt apart with his fingers and ran the tip of his forefinger through her inner lips. He bent his head and took his reward, and when she came, she clamped his head between her thighs and keened into the silence of the basement.
He lifted his head and stared angrily at the changeling’s face, feeling cheated and somehow disappointed.
She didn’t sound like Cordelia.
She didn’t taste like Cordelia.
She smiled at him.
"Our secret, champ," she winked. LA, season five
He stared down into her grave and didn’t cry.
When he heard she woke up, he promised he’d make up for all those wasted years, wasted chances, and unspoken feelings.
He’d take her shopping, cook for her, take her up to his suite and show her what she meant to him, how much he loved her.
He started to, palming her hips beneath the material of his hundred dollar dress shirt, beginning to push her back against the couch where she sat, kissing her softly.
But he let the sadness in her eyes stop him, and instead spent the night trying to talk to her, thinking it would wait just one more day.
The first shovel of dirt hit the coffin, jarring him from his thoughts.
He dropped his American Beauty down into the dark with his heart, and turned and walked away.
No more days left.