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It started with wine.
And silence.
And grief they didn’t know how to name.
Cordelia hadn’t wanted to be alone. She hadn’t asked, exactly. Just said softly, “You could come over. I don’t want to sit with this by myself.” And Angel, wordless and watchful, nodded.
They hadn’t talked about Doyle. Not directly. Not beyond the funeral, the mission, the aftermath. But his absence clung to the air like smoke, lingering in the pauses between words.
Cordelia’s apartment was warm. Lived-in. Still a little messy from the last vision that left her retching into the sink. She’d cleaned, sort of. Lit a candle. Found a bottle of red from a Christmas gift basket she’d never opened.
Now she sat cross-legged on the couch in tiny pajama shorts and an old Sunnydale tee, one that slipped off one shoulder. Her legs were bare. Her mouth soft. Her eyes distant. Angel sat in the armchair across from her, still in black.
They were talking. Slowly. About life. About the things they used to believe would happen.
“I thought I’d be famous by twenty-one,” Cordelia said, twirling her wineglass slowly. “Like, legit Oscar acceptance speech. Tear-streaked mascara. Designer gown. All of it.”
Angel smiled faintly. “You could still be.”
She huffed. “Yeah, well. Turns out demons don’t give a crap about headshots.”
He tilted his head. “What else was on the list?”
Cordelia went quiet for a moment. Then she looked at him — not flirty, not guarded, just honest.
“I hope I get to have a real orgasm before I die.”
Angel’s body stilled, perfectly, instinctively. Like a predator scenting the air.
Cordelia chuckled, not embarrassed — but vulnerable. “Not exactly something I’m proud of. But I’ve faked every one. Every single one. I don’t even know what the real thing feels like.”
Angel didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. His voice, when it came, was low. Steady.
“That shouldn’t be a hope.”
Cordelia tilted her head.
“That should be a certainty,” he said. “Something someone gives you. With time. With focus. With care.”
She exhaled, shaky. “I don’t think it’s about them. I think it’s me. I get in my head. I’m always performing. Thinking. Judging. How I sound. How I look. If I’m taking too long.”
“You’re not the problem,” he said, and the firmness in his voice caught her breath.
She stared at him.
Angel stood slowly and crossed the room to the couch, then knelt between her knees, hands resting on her thighs.
“Let me show you,” he said. “Tonight. If you want me to.”
Her heart thudded.
“You really want to…?”
“I want to make you come,” Angel said, without hesitation. “For real. Slowly. Thoroughly. Until there’s nothing in your head but me.”
Cordelia’s breath caught in her throat.
She nodded.
They made it to her bed without a word.
The wineglass clinked softly on her nightstand. The candle flickered in the corner. Angel kissed her like he wasn’t in a rush, like she was sacred, like her body was something he’d dreamt of for a hundred years and never dared to touch.
Clothes peeled away slowly. She let him undress her without shrinking, even when her shirt lifted and her breasts were bare. Angel stared like he was memorizing.
“You’re gorgeous,” he whispered, lips brushing her collarbone.
Cordelia flushed. Her chest rose and fell rapidly.
He laid her back, gently, and slid her shorts down, eyes never leaving hers. She was trembling. Not from fear — from anticipation. From being seen.
When he kissed down her body — mouth trailing from throat to chest to stomach — she moaned before he even reached her thighs.
Then he settled between them.
His hands wrapped around her hips, holding her steady. His tongue was warm, slow, deliberate — not teasing. Just… focused. Steady rhythm, perfect pressure, like he knew.
And she felt it. Fast.
“Oh God,” she breathed, fingers curling in her sheets.
Angel groaned against her like she tasted like something holy.
But then — her breath stuttered. Her hips hesitated.
Angel paused.
He lifted his head just slightly, fingers still caressing.
“You’re thinking,” he said.
Cordelia bit her lip. “I’m trying not to.”
“You don’t have to try.” He kissed the inside of her thigh. “You just have to listen to me.”
She met his gaze.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re safe. You’re wanted. You’re already perfect.”
She whimpered — and that was the first crack.
“You’re soaked,” he murmured, sliding two fingers inside her, slow and deep. “You don’t need to be anything but open for me.”
Cordelia gasped, back arching.
Angel leaned up over her — his hand still working her slowly — and kissed her breast, tongue curling around her nipple. Then he whispered in her ear.
“Let it happen. Let go. You don’t need to perform. You don’t need to hide. I want every sound you make.”
His fingers stroked just right, and her body clenched.
“I want you to come undone. For me. Because of me. Only me.”
Cordelia’s body started to shake, her hips grinding down onto his hand, every breath raw.
“I want to hear what it sounds like when you stop pretending.”
Then he kissed her again — hard, possessive, fingers still buried inside her, thumb finding the rhythm his mouth had set earlier.
“Let me have it, Cordelia.”
She came with a cry — sudden, unstoppable — her body seizing, hips jerking, hands clawing at his back as the orgasm crashed over her. It was real. Too real. Her whole body shook.
Angel held her through it. Whispered to her. Kissed her chest, her cheek, her temple.
When the tremors stopped, she lay against him, skin flushed, eyes wide, mouth parted.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”
He smiled softly. “Now you do.”
Cordelia lay half-draped across the sheets, sweat-slick and panting, her hair a wild halo against her pillow. Her chest heaved, lips parted, eyes dazed — like someone waking up from a dream she hadn’t known she’d been in.
Angel watched her quietly, one hand stroking her thigh.
He didn’t speak right away. He let her feel it — let the silence ring with the truth of it, the aftershock of something real.
After a long minute, Cordelia gave a shaky, breathless laugh.
“I think my soul left my body,” she whispered.
Angel leaned over her slowly, kissing her shoulder. “Good.”
She turned her head and blinked at him, flushed and still floating. “Good?”
“I want to see it happen again.”
Her heart stuttered.
“You’re serious?”
“I’m very serious.” His voice was quiet, but there was steel in it. “You’ve gone this long without someone giving you what you deserve. I’m going to make up for lost time.”
Her body lit up all over again.
“But—” she started, still catching her breath. “I just—like, just—”
Angel kissed her hip.
“Let me show you how quickly you can fall apart again.”
He didn’t wait for permission this time — didn’t need to.
Because when he slipped back down her body, her thighs opened for him like second nature. Her hands slid into his hair without thought. Her body was already aching.
Angel groaned as he settled between her legs again, kissing her inner thigh like it was a gift.
“You’re still dripping for me,” he murmured. “You know how hot that is? That you came for me and your body still wants more?”
Cordelia whimpered, already twitching under his mouth.
He devoured her this time — slow but hungry, deep and wet and relentless. No teasing. No easing her in. Just Angel owning it, tongue moving in rhythm, fingers gripping her thighs to keep her right where he wanted her.
She moaned, louder this time. Looser.
“God, Angel—fuck—”
“Don’t fight it,” he growled against her. “You’ve already been opened. You know how it feels now. Let me take you there again.”
His voice — low and rough and soaked in heat — vibrated straight through her core. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t hide. Her back arched, body responding like it had been waiting for this all her life.
“You taste so good,” he murmured. “I could stay here all night.”
Her fingers tightened in his hair.
“You want to come again, don’t you?” he said, licking her slow and deep. “You want to know it wasn’t a fluke.”
“Y-yes—please—”
“I’ll give it to you,” he promised, curling his arms under her thighs. “But this time, I want you to say my name when you break.”
Cordelia’s whole body tensed — in the best way.
And then Angel sucked her clit, perfect pressure, perfect rhythm — and that was all it took.
She shattered.
It hit faster, harder, the second time — body jerking, hands grabbing, a cry tearing from her throat that was pure Angel.
She said his name the way he asked — desperate, wrecked, real.
And he moaned into her as she came, like it was his own reward.
When her body finally stopped shaking, she collapsed back into the mattress, legs still trembling, chest flushed and shining with sweat.
Angel kissed her hip again, then her stomach, then crawled up over her slowly, his hands trailing reverently over her skin.
Cordelia looked up at him with dazed, glassy eyes.
“That,” she whispered. “That was illegal.”
Angel smiled, soft and wicked all at once.
Cordelia was still catching her breath when she pulled Angel into a kiss — slow and messy, with no finesse left. Just want. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers curling into his hair.
Angel tried to keep it tender. Tried to hold steady.
But then she shifted beneath him — just a slight roll of her hips — and his body growled.
Cordelia felt it. Smirked.
“Okay,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his. “I think I want you to fuck me now.”
Angel froze.
Cordelia didn’t stop. She kissed down his throat, fingers trailing to the waistband of his pants.
He grabbed her wrist gently. “Cordy.”
Her eyes met his. She knew that tone. That vampire guilt tone.
He swallowed. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” she asked, already flushed, glowing, practically purring in his lap.
His voice was quiet. “The curse.”
Cordelia blinked. Then gave a breathless little laugh. “Oh my God.”
Angel looked like he wanted to disappear.
“No, no,” she said, catching his jaw in her hand. “I’m not laughing at you. I just forgot. You have a literal curse that activates when you’re too happy.”
He gave her a pained half-smile.
“Well,” she said, straddling his hips now, skin bare against his pants, “I hate to burst your bubble, but I don’t think this counts.”
“Cordy—”
“We don’t love each other,” she said. “You’re not going to lose your soul. We’re not… soulmates, Angel. This is just…” Her voice softened. “It’s grief. And need. And comfort.”
His hands had landed on her thighs, gripping tight. She felt him hard beneath her, straining through his pants.
“And I want you,” she whispered. “Now.”
Angel groaned — low, ragged, desperate.
Cordelia kissed him again, then whispered in his ear, “Let me ride you.”
That broke him.
Angel lay back on her bed, watching with awe-struck eyes as she pulled a condom from the drawer — something left over from a long-forgotten hookup that never happened.
He said nothing when she straddled him again, naked, flushed, confident.
Cordelia was the one to undress him fully — shirt, pants, boxers — her hands greedy now, her gaze possessive.
And when she finally sank down onto him, slow and deep, her eyes fluttered shut.
Angel made a sound — like he’d just been given something forbidden.
“Jesus Christ,” he gasped. “Cordelia—”
Her rhythm was slow at first, rolling her hips in tight, practiced circles, her palms flat on his chest. Her hair fell around her face like a curtain, and Angel couldn’t stop looking at her.
And then—her breasts.
Full, perfect, bouncing with every grind of her hips. His hands came up instinctively, cupping them, thumbing over her nipples like he couldn’t decide whether to worship or devour.
“You’re driving me insane,” he groaned, squeezing her harder.
Cordelia smirked, breathless. “You like them?”
“I’m obsessed,” he growled, sitting up just enough to suck one into his mouth, lips wet and hot around her. “I could come just from this.”
She gasped — but didn’t stop moving.
His voice turned dark, low, filthy with heat.
“You riding me like this — fuck — you’re so tight. So hot. Look at you.” His fingers gripped her hips now, guiding her. “You were made for this. Made to make a man lose his mind.”
Cordelia moaned. “You like watching me fall apart?”
“I love it,” he said, his voice almost breaking. “And I love watching you take what you want. Look at you, Cordy — you’re owning this.”
She was shaking now — close again. So close.
“You want to come again?” Angel whispered, sucking her nipple once more. “You want to come while you’re on top of me?”
Cordelia nodded, gasping. “Yes — yes — Angel—”
“Then do it,” he growled. “Come for me. Right now. I want to feel it.”
She broke. Again.
Her orgasm ripped through her like a wave, and she cried out his name as her hips jerked, rhythm broken.
Angel gripped her tight, thrusting up once, twice — and then groaned as he followed, hips locked to hers, his own release shuddering through him.
They collapsed together, a tangle of breath and sweat and heat, Cordelia slumped against his chest.
For a long time, neither of them said a word.
Then Cordelia whispered, hoarse and stunned:
“Okay. That definitely was amazing.”
Angel smiled faintly into her hair.
Angel didn’t dream often.
Not the way humans did. Not clearly. But sometimes — when his sleep was deep, his body still saturated with the echo of touch and scent and sensation — the edges of dreams blurred into something dangerous.
He dreamed of Cordelia.
Of her mouth. Her breathy laugh. The way she rode him like she was doing him a favor and enjoying every second of it.
Mostly, though?
He dreamed of her breasts.
The way they felt when she leaned over him, full and heavy and warm in his hands. The way they bounced when she moved, the way she gasped when he sucked one into his mouth.
The way she’d moaned, half-laughing, “You really like these, huh?”
He’d grunted something like “obsessed” before going back for more.
And now — morning.
Dim sunlight filtered in through Cordelia’s curtains. The room was still, quiet. A warm weight pressed against him — and when Angel blinked awake, he realized two things at once.
First: he was hard. Rigid, aching, straining against the sheets.
Second: his hand was buried under the blanket, fully cupping Cordelia’s bare breast.
She was still asleep. Her back was pressed to his chest, and his hand had clearly wandered at some point in the night. Or — more likely — never left.
Angel stilled. Completely.
His thumb rested right at the top curve of her breast. His fingers spread under the softness. And he could feel her nipple, just slightly hard from the cool air.
He swallowed.
Very carefully, he started to move his hand away—
“Angel,” she murmured sleepily. “Are you…?”
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, rough. “Dreams.”
She smirked into the pillow. “Of me?”
“Of you,” he growled. “Riding me. Moaning. Telling me how good I feel inside you.”
She gasped softly.
“Specifically,” he added, “dreams of this breast in my mouth while you came all over me.”
Her breath hitched.
He let his hand slide down her waist, slow and certain, drawing a soft whimper from her.
Cordelia turned in his arms, eyes still half-closed, and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips again like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re obsessed,” she teased, guiding his hands to her chest.
Angel sat up, hands greedy. “I am. Look at you.”
His mouth closed over one nipple, tongue slow and deliberate, and her breath stuttered.
“You’re perfect like this,” he murmured, switching sides. “So soft. So full. I could stay here forever.”
Her hips rolled, slow and hot, grinding down against the length of him.
Angel groaned.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered.
Cordelia smirked. “You’re already dead.”
He opened his eyes and looked at her — really looked.
Then he flipped them.
Cordelia hit the mattress with a gasp, legs spread beneath him, Angel pinning her down with one hand and lining himself up with the other. She felt it — the stretch, the pressure — and then he was in.
Fully.
Deep.
She moaned, wrecked already.
Angel held her there, buried to the hilt, barely breathing.
“God, Cordy,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven. Like fucking salvation.”
Her fingers clawed at his back. “Move.”
He didn’t. Not yet.
He kissed her hard, then leaned down and spoke right into her ear:
“You’re mine right now. You hear me? You’re not going anywhere. Not until I’ve felt you fall apart again. Not until you’ve screamed my name so loud your neighbors know who fucked you like this.”
Cordelia whimpered.
Then he started to move.
Slow at first — cruelly slow — like he wanted to drag it out. Every thrust thick with tension, every pull back making her beg.
His hand slid between them, his mouth on her throat.
“I want to feel you come again,” he whispered. “All over me. Wet and desperate and so fucking beautiful I forget who I am.”
She shattered.
He made sure of it — relentless, praising, filthy in the way only reverence can be filthy.
And when she was crying out his name, hips jerking, nails digging into his arms, that’s when he let go too.
They fell together.
And when the quiet finally returned, Cordelia blinked up at him, flushed and dazed and utterly spent.
“You still think we don’t love each other?” she asked softly.
Angel brushed hair from her face, eyes searching.
“I think,” he said, “we’re not ready to find out what happens if we do.”