Title: In Control
Author: Nickle
Posted:
Rating: N-17
Email
Category: Smut and nothin’ but the smut
Content: C/A
Summary: Cordy thinks Angel is Buffy’s lapdog. Even in bed.
Spoilers: None- Early S3 btvs.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: GT/AA/NF…anywhere else, just ask
Notes: based on a challenge of Sach’s [Califi], the wench.
Thanks/Dedication:
Feedback: Loved
Chapter 1
Life was full of fun little factoids to know and tell. For example: Cordelia knew that watching your lame excuse of a boyfriend make googoo eyes at his little nerdy mouse of a friend was not, in fact, flattering or fun.
Neither was hanging out in the freakin’ library, of all places, to hear the 411 on Buffy’s most recent slimebuddy that she was going to have to kill. Not like the rest of them were needed for that. Some of them, one or two of them…ok, just Cordelia had a life that didn’t include the daily soaking of the clothes caked in demon goo.
She had other, more important things to do. Like plan her future wedding to Prince William. But no, apparently in a moment of looniness, she’d picked Xander Harris to bestow her attention on . And she had paid for it ever since.
Completely cut off from her friends, losing her favorite Jimmy Choo’s on a run through the cemetery, having to drive her Grandma’s geezermobile of an Olds while she tried to get an uninvite levied on her own car. All this joy for the giving Xander the best semester of her life. It so sucked.
Across the library, Angel sat quietly, slouched back in his chair, chin resting on steepled fingers as he listened to Giles drone on about the latest and baddest. Except it wasn’t so bad; Angel had dealt with this demon before. Not like he’d share that. The last couple of times he’d volunteered any information at all, Giles had completely ignored him and Xander had flat out told him to shut up.
When they needed his help, they’d ask for it. On the same day it snowed in hell. Angel could have told him that actually, hell could be very very cold and still burn your soul to a sooty ash. He knew that first hand. One hundred years was a long time to live on earth surrounded by your nearest and dearest; one hundred years in hell was an infinite eternity.
He hadn’t even wanted to come tonight but Buffy had insisted. They would forgive him, she said. They would come around. His place was helping her.
It was that last that really pissed him off. His place? Make him a woman and keep him barefoot and pregnant hunched over a stove…all the same thing. His freakin’ place. Shit. His plans were to figure that out on his own, thank you very much. That would be his pleasure and his alone.
Coming back hadn’t been without its pleasures, small as they were. Willow had hesitatingly visited him at the mansion one night, all skinny nervousness and stuttering. She sat there, bravely, proud of herself for her courage, as she told him about the closed loophole on the noose around his soul.
She had researched it carefully, and she hadn’t reinstated the damn curse when she resouled him. “You can, you know….” She head leaned forward and whispered loudly, “get HAPPY.” Her eyes grew wide. He did know what she was talking about, didn’t he? Yeah, he knew.
He thanked her, and apologized for her fish, and complimented her on her incredible bravery on coming to him alone and sitting there long enough to tell him the big news. Of course, the huge cross that she held in front of her in a white-knuckled death grip, the wooden stake gripped in the other hand, the necklace of garlic cloves and the squirt gun of holy water in her lap did boost the courage quotient somewhat. He sighed, remembering.
Finding out he could enjoy life with fewer limits had been a pleasure. Actually having that enjoyment, now that was another story.
So here he was, in the library with a group of people who hated him and were frightened of him and what they knew he could be. He had tortured them all, each and every one, in some way. And they resented him with each breath they took.
Even Buffy. She didn’t trust that the spell was fixed, and he no longer wasn’t fixed. She was deeply mournful around him, like teenage girls are when in the throes of the deep despair of a lost love. God he hated that. He spent so much time reassuring and comforting and being stoic it had taken him a while to admit the truth to himself: he didn’t want her anymore.
Acathala had needed his blood, not his soul, and she had handed it over without another thought. Then she trotted off and played poor broken girl with great hair while he had writhed and suffered in the deepest of hells. Kinda hard to get Mr. Happy stand up and take notice after that. He looked around the room disinterestedly while Buffy began barking out orders.
Xander seemed fixed attentively on Buffy while she talked, Willow looked wide-eyed, like she had a secret she just couldn’t hold in another moment. His eyes met Giles’, who stared at him with deep and utter hatred and contempt. Angel sighed. Oz slouched in a chair next to Willow, absently playing with her fingers as he listened to Buffy. And speak of the slayer….she stood there, short and mighty, doling out decrees. God she could yammer.
“Ok, got it, can we be back home by 9:00? Because Tight Spot is playing at the Bronze….”
“Yeah, Cordelia, we’ll try to fit it in around your schedule.” Buffy’s voice dripped sarcasm. Cordelia’s lips drew into a tight line. She had learned a long time ago that no one ever sided with her in a one on one with Buffy.
They always sided with Buffy. Apparently being a sidekick meant you got kicked a little on the side if you tried to be a stand up gal.
Angel watched this little interplay with detachment. Cordelia, he hadn’t figured out yet. Buffy used her as a doormat, or tried to, and still Cordelia came back for more. Granted, she came back fighting. And she could outmouth Buffy any day of the week.
If Cordelia were a demon, she’d be….a yammerouth. Her power would be to yammer incessantly with pointed barbs until the Slayer collapsed from a brain deflation. Angel grinned to himself; sitting here and listening to Cordelia sometimes was another small pleasure. Although he wondered about her intelligence in choosing Xander to press flesh with.
“Angel!!” he swung his gaze lazily to an impatient Buffy. “Need your attention here. Be on standby for backup. I’ll let you know if I need you.” Angel held her gaze, not responding. Yeah, I’ll do that.
There was an uncomfortable rustle in the room; no one knew what to say in a conversation that included Angel. Out of the corner, Angel heard a mutter, so soft no one else could hear it. “Bet he was on a leash in the bed, too. Jeeze, what a lapdog!” His gaze, intent, slowly raised and rested on Cordelia, who sat absently twirling a lock of long hair between her fingers.
She gazed sightlessly in his direction, and started, suddenly realizing that he was staring at her. She looked around in a mild panic; she hadn’t said that out loud, had she? But no one else paid her any attention. He couldn’t have heard that. He was just being creepy Angel. Ignoring him, she continued to twist her hair around her finger.
A lapdog? A fuckin’ lapdog? Angel brooded, lowering his gaze to his hands. Honey, he not only ran with the big dogs, he WAS the big dog. He knew more about sexual pleasure than Miss Cordelia Chase could ever learn in three lifetimes, and if there was anyone here made for that particular little joy of life, it was the cheerleader.
He glanced back over at her, oblivious to his gaze. She was a tight little package, firm and nubile. His misguided foray into a love life with Buffy had been a bad mistake. He’d been all caught up in the moment of her innocence and relative fragility. It had been tender and sweet and gentle….not really words that had described him in the past.
Now this little brunette…..she could be taken for a ride. Through the mountains, down in the valley, sharp around the curves and straight down the road to where the sky and earth meet and blend, full throttle. She was built for exactly that. She was built to be driven, and controlled. A lapdog in bed. No one wanted that; it was boring.
Now, having control relinquished, that was something altogether different. A lapdog didn’t make that choice, but a woman strong enough to give over to him, that was the bedmate he wanted.
He shifted in his seat, feeling his pants tighten over his groin as the thoughts in his head took shape. There was no dog in this room, but he’d bet good money she’d make a great little pet. His attention came back to the room; apparently the droning portion of the evening was over. Angel watched as everyone rose and listlessly gathered backpacks and bookbags, and quietly rose and stepped back into the shadows, escaping into the evening without another word.
Cordelia and Xander wandered out into the hallway, followed by Willow and Oz. Xander turned to everyone and took a breath. “OK. Let’s try something new tonight.”
Cordy perked up. “And by new, I mean that we do the exact same thing of following Buffy to the cemetery and hanging back so she won’t get mad.” Cordy glared at him.
“Xander, she doesn’t want us there. She’s Buffy, for God’s sake. What she sadly lacks in brains, charm, looks, or fashion sense she makes up for in brute strength. She’s fine.”
Xander looked at her, a crooked grin on his face. “C’mon, Cord, it’ll be fun. You, me, the dark, lots of lipping…”
“No. She’s mean and I hate her shoes. I’m not going. I’m going to the Bronze. I’m going to have fun. You do remember fun, don’t you? I’m going to have some. You losers need me, you know where to find me.” And she stalked off down the hall, angry that even in a group she didn’t like and had little respect for, she wasn’t the Queen.
Outside, an expectant hush settled over the night. Cordy stalked to her car, angry short clicks of her heels as she turned over in her head various scenarios of Buffy begging for her help, her guidance. Of Xander offering himself on the alter of her mercy. Of Willow…..she snorted. Like she’d waste brainspace on Willow. Cordy looked down into her bag, looking for her keys as she approached her car.
“You should have your keys in your hand before you leave the building, Cordelia. That way, you have a weapon in your hand if you’re attacked.” Cordy shrieked, dropping her bag as her head snapped up, meeting Angel’s steady gaze. He leaned against her car, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his chest. His strong, sculpted chest….she sucked in a breath.
“Holy cow, Angel….is that how you kill ’em…give ’em coronaries?” She paused a moment, letting her heart calm, before stooping to scoop up the spilled contents from her bag. Angel watched her, not moving. His eyes traveled up the lines of her bent legs, admiring the lightly muscled length..
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, well, whatever.” Sighing, Cordelia rose and fumbled for her keys. “Tell you what. We’ll do the Buffy show. You go sit somewhere quietly and when I need you, I’ll call you.”
Angel met her gaze without blinking. Cordy began to squirm a bit. Finally, he spoke in a measured tone. “Thought I’d hang out with you at the Bronze in case they need us. You never know.”
Cordy looked at him suspiciously for a moment. “OK. I guess. You’re on your own for drinks. And I like strawberry lemonades. No pulp.”
Angel smiled slightly. “Deal.” They climbed into her car and set off, peeling out of the parking lot with a squeal. Angel relaxed back into his seat, watching her as she drove. She tried to be casual, but she felt his gaze on her like a heated blanket. After a few moments of silence, she finally spoke.
“Would you mind not staring at me?”
Silence. “I always enjoy looking at beauty.”
Cordy snorted. “Smooth line. Work often?”
“Not tonight, apparently.” His voice was laced with mild humor. She thought a bit.
Angel in her car. How often had she wanted THAT? Actually, she had thought about Angel in her car, Angel in her bedroom, Angel on a chaise by the pool, Angel….well, just about anywhere. Xander…he was mildly entertaining. He worked hard and was so malleable, usually.
Not tonight, but usually. She so ruled him. And for the most part, that was fun, ruling a boy. For the most part. But sitting here, by Angel….
She suddenly saw the difference. Xander was a boy. Angel was a man. Xander, she could predict and control. Angel…..dark, strong, quiet Angel. He was door number three, and she wasn’t sure what was there. But wondering was making her tingly.
She wordlessly parked the car and hopped out, not waiting for him as she took off for the entrance of the Bronze. A strong hand tugged gently at her arm, and she looked at Angel, who had come up to her silently.
“With me.” His grip was firm but gentle, and she was so surprised by his quiet insistence that she only nodded. They walked in together, into the raised hum of the crowd. Angel led Cordy to a sofa in the corner where they could see the stage clearly and sat down beside her.
Cordy sat back, a little unsettled at his attention, and pretended to scout the crowd. Angel watched her intently, drinking in the shimmer of nervousness that hovered from her body. She was aware of him, he had no doubt of that. And she was skittish. And she was….he smiled. She was intrigued.
Cordelia tried to shift with the charged atmosphere that had sprung up between them. She looked around, everywhere but at him. He was right at her side, sitting closer than he needed to on the long sofa. She felt his leg pressed against hers, and sucked in a breath.
Was he coming on to her? Not like it wasn’t possible, but she had the “Buffio and Angellette” show shoved down her throat so many times she had decided that the only salty goodness she’d be licking would be in her very hot dreams. Yet here he was, sculpted man ‘o hot goodness, pressing his strong, muscled, long leg against her. Like he wanted her.
He leaned over slightly and whispered in her ear. “I do, you know.” She spun her head towards him, shocked.
“How did you….” He grinned. “I mean, what do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, Cordelia. You’re smart. Very smart. I like that about you.”
She gaped at him. “Ummmm……hookay……have you been drinking, you know, something other than a substance Red Cross approved?”
“Nope. Just seeing clearly.” And he was. He was seeing Cordy on the sofa, on the table, bent over the counter….he was seeing it all very very clearly. He leaned in towards her and whispered in her ear. “Want to come back to the mansion….and…talk?”
Cordy stared at him, her lips parted in shock. Angel leaned over and gently tapped at her chin, pressing her mouth shut. “Open it for me later, Cordy.” His voice was a dark whisper, and it sent shivers down her spine.
Ohgod. He wanted her. Just like she……just like she wanted him. She nodded, one short nod, and he gently leaned forward and kissed her lips briefly. “Good girl. Let’s go.” They rose and walked out, calmly, his hand on the small of her back, guiding her. They walked silently to her car and she reached for the doorhandle of the driver’s side, but he stopped her. She looked up at him, confused.
“Give me the keys, Cordelia. I’m driving.”
Cordy stared at him for a moment, feeling like something more was being said than a simple desire to drive a car. Wordlessly, she handed him the keys and he walked her around to the passenger side, opening the door for her and gently handling her into the car. She smiled to herself as she watched him walk around the front of the car.
Xander hadn’t ever opened a door for her. And the one time he had stuttered out a request to drive her car she had giggled and said, “Right. That will so happen.” And he had never asked again.
So here she was…in her own car, being driven by Angel. Going to his home…his mansion, she corrected herself, smiling. Going to his mansion, and she, Cordelia Chase, was going to show Angel that liplocking with a Queen was quite a step above wasting time with a Buffy.
Beside her, Angel drove, content in the dark. Back to the mansion, inside the door, and he was going to show one Ms. Cordelia Chase that there were no lapdogs to be found anywhere….and that handing the keys over to Angel had given him much much more.