'Tensity' (Cordelia/Angel, R)
This is what happens when nostalgia and kink bites you in the ass. What? It's true!
Tensity
Cordelia/Angel
R. A relationship in tension and restraint.
He has a tendency to restrain himself when he kisses her. It’s delicate, warm, the way his mouth presses against hers, tongue seeking entrance before he dismisses the action. It’s all pins and needles running through her, the tense line of her neck, her back, the grip on his shoulders, his coat. She touches a little lock of hair at the back of his neck, files away that he needs a haircut, and then bucks against him, closing the gap.
He growls, teeth grazing her lower lip.
“I need to-”
“Don’t even think about it,” she tries to say, but it’s mostly a groan and she’s got her fingers in his hair; she bids him closer.
By the time she has her hands cupping his face, he’s already pulling away. He kisses her temple briefly and then he’s off and up the stairs, leaving the relative safety -- whatever that is -- of the lobby that they’re in.
There will be monsters and deadly things to deal with in the next few minutes and office romances complicate these matters.
--
“I think,” Cordelia announces, “that it isn’t humanly -- okay, demonically? Demonically possible to have that much slime in one body.”
The coldness of the banquette against her calves makes Cordelia frown and readjust herself to put her head in Angel’s lap. He feigns protest but ends up placing a slimy sword on the floor, scrunching his nose in distaste.
“It was like a water balloon,” Angel says, wiping his shoulder. His hand comes back streaked with blood, his and the demon’s.
Gunn is already in the bathroom, voicing his complaints loudly over running water. Wesley, despite his hair being slimy and in disarray, is looking through his textbooks. The only thing Fred does to hide the enormous tears in her skirt is plop a pile of books in her lap, push her glasses up and begin to read.
Cordy and Angel take this as a cue to leave, and they do, as quickly as one can manage without sliding on marble floors streaked with slimy footprints.
--
It goes on like this, every night, with variances, with repercussions, and it will not change.
--
There is a curse, it’s complicated, it’s a -- it’s an unfortunate problem, but they wake in the same room, every night, every morning. Dennis has moved to the hotel, and Cordy has moved into Angel’s room. It’s a collection of old world meets Pottery Barn but there is a bed and sometimes that’s the most important.
Sometimes though, they would rather shower and collapse on the bed, fall into a dreamless sleep and wake up with muscles aching and cuts stinging. But many times, they have sex, and there is a curse but they don’t care, as she’ll give him a good smack and are you happy now?
Except he always is.
--
Early on, he decides on her behalf that this relationship is “dangerous” and that “nothing good will come of it”. That is the official notice. It’s official for less than an hour before she has her say and he limps, very slightly, down the stairs in the morning after.
She’s a kicker, that one.
--
“You could just rush in, you know,” Cordelia says, trying not to lean against the dirty wall behind her. New jacket, a present, and one that she wants to hold onto longer than a week. “Get all ‘grr’. I’m right behind you.”
Angel waves a hand. Quiet. There are screams and begging further down in the warehouse. “Need to weigh my options.”
“As in, you’re stalling?” She blows a lock of hair out of her eyes. “We can totally take them on.”
“Cordy!” Angel grits through clenched teeth. He jerks his head and his body tenses. Muscles strain, body poised to jump. “It isn’t about that. It’s-”
He leaves the sentence unfinished as he sails over the row of boxes, game face, roaring. Cordy finishes it for him, her own battle cry a yelp of a curse when running after him on broken heels.
(It’s about the hunt.)
--
There are times when things are normal. Cordelia complains that he doesn’t put his weapons back in the right place in the cabinet. That he reads her e-mails and that he needs to change the coffee filter, and that he should wine and dine her far more often.
Angel complains that she doesn’t label files by “the standard rules of English”, that she invests too much time in buying shoes that’ll just get ruined later, and that there is no need to add a decorative swirly straw to his morning mug of blood. It just isn’t right.
And then there are times when he grazes her belly with jagged teeth, tongue sliding down the scar there, there, there is where she opens and she arches her back, up and up and up, she will snap-
But she does not snap, she only digs her nails, hard, in the skin of his shoulders and drags them down his arms, little trails of red that make him shiver, make him hard. Just as quick, her hand goes up and he watches, gold eyes narrowing. Angel watches each little motion, takes note: that spot will make her giggle, this one, right here, will make her sigh. Harder and she’ll gasp, breath running ragged and sore, moaning.
Here is where she will scream.
--
It could have happened like this:
Angel has the penthouse suite, with a breathtaking view, lots of art deco furniture, ridiculously expensive paintings and yet they’re ignored, many nights, in favor of the floor or bed.
The situation takes getting used to. Wolfram and Hart, formerly source of all evil. Now it’s under Angel’s control and he better not fuck it up, less Cordelia have her say. Which, well, she does all the time regardless, so there’s not much difference than the usual banter. So now she’ll tell him what to do, except now it’s in a different setting. Sometimes night, but many times during the day, without him being burned to a crisp. Tempered glass. Useful.
They excuse themselves from meetings and make-out right up to the suite, right in the elevator then out the door, edging closer and closer to the bed. Sometimes they miss it entirely, sometimes he throws her on it, sometimes she drags him by his tie. In this instance, they reach the bed. Angel lets Cordelia straddle him, lets her slide her hands along his shoulders and push his shirt off. She spider walks her fingers down his biceps, sending chills down his spine.
And they talk while they do this, they talk business and what they must do the following day. It’s not dirty talk by any means, but Cordelia says things like “schedule” and “conference call” and that… That works. That’s fucking cliché but fuck if Angel cares because it’s Cordy, she’s talking, she’s on his lap, it turns him on, and that can only lead to good. Or sex, honestly, but that’s beside the point.
Sometimes, like this time, he vamps and Cordelia spends too much time tracing the contours of his face, digging furrows along his cheek when he goes too far. The fact that she doesn’t apologize when she does this (she did, long ago) makes him see the strength, the loyalty within her. She’ll scratch him up good, smirk at any raised questions come the following morning.
(Not too happy.)
It could have happened like that. But it doesn’t.
--
He’s bitten her twice.
--
The first time, she wore her hair long and wore that perfume he didn’t like; it was new and unfamiliar. It stung. He threaded his fingers through her hair and told her it would be only this, it would be kissing and that was all. He was a gentleman. A perfect gentleman. He did not press the matter.
They had kissed, he told her that would be all. She wanted more.
In typical fashion, they’d gone at it, arguing, Angel in his low, calm voice, Cordelia pacing, reasoning, saying it’s fine, please, Angel, please and it would be fine, wouldn’t it? It would be the first time for them both; it wouldn’t be perfect. She even went on to say she wasn’t in tip-top shape, she went on to say these inane little things that made him angrier than he was; that she would insult herself when he shouldn’t even be in the room with her, much less-
That was the first time she screamed at him, really did, saying he was an idiot as usual and that he shouldn’t think of himself that way-
It was different, the first time. It started off gentle and descended into arguing, faces inches apart before they grabbed one another; they kissed. Hard. That was the first time, it wasn’t gentle, it would never happen that way again, they agreed. It would be loving and not in anger thereafter.
They agreed that there wouldn’t be any more blood.
Except it remained the same every single time afterwards.
--
Angel is in game face far more often than he used to be, though Cordelia shows no sign of curiosity to this change.
It’s what you are, she’d say, and she does, at night, when she rubs the pads of her fingertips against the distended brow, high cheekbones, jagged teeth. It’s what you are and I don’t care, she says, and she repeats this fact.
Cordelia would say that she loves his face against her, forehead, cheek, mouth, fangs against her spine, but she is too busy screaming.
END
Tensity
Cordelia/Angel
R. A relationship in tension and restraint.
He has a tendency to restrain himself when he kisses her. It’s delicate, warm, the way his mouth presses against hers, tongue seeking entrance before he dismisses the action. It’s all pins and needles running through her, the tense line of her neck, her back, the grip on his shoulders, his coat. She touches a little lock of hair at the back of his neck, files away that he needs a haircut, and then bucks against him, closing the gap.
He growls, teeth grazing her lower lip.
“I need to-”
“Don’t even think about it,” she tries to say, but it’s mostly a groan and she’s got her fingers in his hair; she bids him closer.
By the time she has her hands cupping his face, he’s already pulling away. He kisses her temple briefly and then he’s off and up the stairs, leaving the relative safety -- whatever that is -- of the lobby that they’re in.
There will be monsters and deadly things to deal with in the next few minutes and office romances complicate these matters.
--
“I think,” Cordelia announces, “that it isn’t humanly -- okay, demonically? Demonically possible to have that much slime in one body.”
The coldness of the banquette against her calves makes Cordelia frown and readjust herself to put her head in Angel’s lap. He feigns protest but ends up placing a slimy sword on the floor, scrunching his nose in distaste.
“It was like a water balloon,” Angel says, wiping his shoulder. His hand comes back streaked with blood, his and the demon’s.
Gunn is already in the bathroom, voicing his complaints loudly over running water. Wesley, despite his hair being slimy and in disarray, is looking through his textbooks. The only thing Fred does to hide the enormous tears in her skirt is plop a pile of books in her lap, push her glasses up and begin to read.
Cordy and Angel take this as a cue to leave, and they do, as quickly as one can manage without sliding on marble floors streaked with slimy footprints.
--
It goes on like this, every night, with variances, with repercussions, and it will not change.
--
There is a curse, it’s complicated, it’s a -- it’s an unfortunate problem, but they wake in the same room, every night, every morning. Dennis has moved to the hotel, and Cordy has moved into Angel’s room. It’s a collection of old world meets Pottery Barn but there is a bed and sometimes that’s the most important.
Sometimes though, they would rather shower and collapse on the bed, fall into a dreamless sleep and wake up with muscles aching and cuts stinging. But many times, they have sex, and there is a curse but they don’t care, as she’ll give him a good smack and are you happy now?
Except he always is.
--
Early on, he decides on her behalf that this relationship is “dangerous” and that “nothing good will come of it”. That is the official notice. It’s official for less than an hour before she has her say and he limps, very slightly, down the stairs in the morning after.
She’s a kicker, that one.
--
“You could just rush in, you know,” Cordelia says, trying not to lean against the dirty wall behind her. New jacket, a present, and one that she wants to hold onto longer than a week. “Get all ‘grr’. I’m right behind you.”
Angel waves a hand. Quiet. There are screams and begging further down in the warehouse. “Need to weigh my options.”
“As in, you’re stalling?” She blows a lock of hair out of her eyes. “We can totally take them on.”
“Cordy!” Angel grits through clenched teeth. He jerks his head and his body tenses. Muscles strain, body poised to jump. “It isn’t about that. It’s-”
He leaves the sentence unfinished as he sails over the row of boxes, game face, roaring. Cordy finishes it for him, her own battle cry a yelp of a curse when running after him on broken heels.
(It’s about the hunt.)
--
There are times when things are normal. Cordelia complains that he doesn’t put his weapons back in the right place in the cabinet. That he reads her e-mails and that he needs to change the coffee filter, and that he should wine and dine her far more often.
Angel complains that she doesn’t label files by “the standard rules of English”, that she invests too much time in buying shoes that’ll just get ruined later, and that there is no need to add a decorative swirly straw to his morning mug of blood. It just isn’t right.
And then there are times when he grazes her belly with jagged teeth, tongue sliding down the scar there, there, there is where she opens and she arches her back, up and up and up, she will snap-
But she does not snap, she only digs her nails, hard, in the skin of his shoulders and drags them down his arms, little trails of red that make him shiver, make him hard. Just as quick, her hand goes up and he watches, gold eyes narrowing. Angel watches each little motion, takes note: that spot will make her giggle, this one, right here, will make her sigh. Harder and she’ll gasp, breath running ragged and sore, moaning.
Here is where she will scream.
--
It could have happened like this:
Angel has the penthouse suite, with a breathtaking view, lots of art deco furniture, ridiculously expensive paintings and yet they’re ignored, many nights, in favor of the floor or bed.
The situation takes getting used to. Wolfram and Hart, formerly source of all evil. Now it’s under Angel’s control and he better not fuck it up, less Cordelia have her say. Which, well, she does all the time regardless, so there’s not much difference than the usual banter. So now she’ll tell him what to do, except now it’s in a different setting. Sometimes night, but many times during the day, without him being burned to a crisp. Tempered glass. Useful.
They excuse themselves from meetings and make-out right up to the suite, right in the elevator then out the door, edging closer and closer to the bed. Sometimes they miss it entirely, sometimes he throws her on it, sometimes she drags him by his tie. In this instance, they reach the bed. Angel lets Cordelia straddle him, lets her slide her hands along his shoulders and push his shirt off. She spider walks her fingers down his biceps, sending chills down his spine.
And they talk while they do this, they talk business and what they must do the following day. It’s not dirty talk by any means, but Cordelia says things like “schedule” and “conference call” and that… That works. That’s fucking cliché but fuck if Angel cares because it’s Cordy, she’s talking, she’s on his lap, it turns him on, and that can only lead to good. Or sex, honestly, but that’s beside the point.
Sometimes, like this time, he vamps and Cordelia spends too much time tracing the contours of his face, digging furrows along his cheek when he goes too far. The fact that she doesn’t apologize when she does this (she did, long ago) makes him see the strength, the loyalty within her. She’ll scratch him up good, smirk at any raised questions come the following morning.
(Not too happy.)
It could have happened like that. But it doesn’t.
--
He’s bitten her twice.
--
The first time, she wore her hair long and wore that perfume he didn’t like; it was new and unfamiliar. It stung. He threaded his fingers through her hair and told her it would be only this, it would be kissing and that was all. He was a gentleman. A perfect gentleman. He did not press the matter.
They had kissed, he told her that would be all. She wanted more.
In typical fashion, they’d gone at it, arguing, Angel in his low, calm voice, Cordelia pacing, reasoning, saying it’s fine, please, Angel, please and it would be fine, wouldn’t it? It would be the first time for them both; it wouldn’t be perfect. She even went on to say she wasn’t in tip-top shape, she went on to say these inane little things that made him angrier than he was; that she would insult herself when he shouldn’t even be in the room with her, much less-
That was the first time she screamed at him, really did, saying he was an idiot as usual and that he shouldn’t think of himself that way-
It was different, the first time. It started off gentle and descended into arguing, faces inches apart before they grabbed one another; they kissed. Hard. That was the first time, it wasn’t gentle, it would never happen that way again, they agreed. It would be loving and not in anger thereafter.
They agreed that there wouldn’t be any more blood.
Except it remained the same every single time afterwards.
--
Angel is in game face far more often than he used to be, though Cordelia shows no sign of curiosity to this change.
It’s what you are, she’d say, and she does, at night, when she rubs the pads of her fingertips against the distended brow, high cheekbones, jagged teeth. It’s what you are and I don’t care, she says, and she repeats this fact.
Cordelia would say that she loves his face against her, forehead, cheek, mouth, fangs against her spine, but she is too busy screaming.
END