Remedial Buffy
by glossolalia

Cordelia likes the sound the sword makes when she swings it just right. It's a swish, but also a swack, good silk rending in two. The air quivers for half a beat afterward, tickling the hair on her arms, before it knits back together.

"Fred, check this out!"

Fred's bent over some huge book, glasses slipping down her nose, reading like there's no tomorrow.

Cordelia assumes the stance again, squaring her shoulders and inhaling, pulling the energy down into her gut -- and how does Angel harness chi, anyway, if he doesn't breathe -- and lunges forward, swiping the sword horizontally.

Good move. It'd behead a demon for sure.

"Fred, you're not watching --"

Silence. And it's not like the book won't be there in a minute or so; it wouldn't kill her to look up.

Cordelia pulls the sword against her side and rubs out the ache in her shoulder. If she had a little more free time, she could so turn Angel's semi-mystical sword stuff into the hottest workout since Pilates. But that would share the secrets with every wanna-be and waitress in the Valley. She's pretty happy with just how toned she's gotten, never mind anyone else.

Sword-practice means less filing, too.

Swish-swack, but she's a little off-balance and stumbles against the couch.

"Nice one," Fred calls without even looking up.

Cordy's about to say something about the blind, or nerds and their inadequate sense of grace and style, when a hoarse voice behind her says, "Your elbow's jutting out too much. Need to tuck it in against your side."

"Buffy?" she asks, spinning around, poking the sword into the couch cushions for balance. None other than the original slayer, slumping against the front door in a black turtleneck and jeans, arms crossed over her chest. She looks either like she's on her way to a beatnik costume party or it's laundry day and she had to raid Willow's old clothes. Either way, it's not all that impressive, but Cordy hugs her anyway. "Wow, Buffy! I haven't seen you since -- well, since your funeral."

"Hi, Cordy. I --"

"You look better than you did then," Cordy says. "Marginally, anyway." What happened to you? she wants to ask, but she's working on the tact thing. "God, Buffy. How are you? What's new? What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"

"Got resurrected," Buffy says, and she might be joking. There's a ghost of a smile on her lips, but she doesn't sound like she's joking. "You?"

Cordy taps her forehead. "Got part-demon."

"I win," Buffy says, sitting on the couch like she's been on her feet for twelve hours. "Bright side, though, you're my type now."

"Right. Million years and that still wouldn't happen," Cordy says. "Fred!" No answer. That girl and her book; she doesn't know how Wesley's supposed to compete. Cordy clasps Buffy's hand and squeezes it between both of her own. "What are you doing in LA? Apocalypsey rumblings? I haven't seen anything."

Buffy ducks her head. "Nothing like that. Just needed -- fresh air, I guess. Day off. Is Angel around?"

Of course. Not an apocalypse, and definitely not a day off. It's always the other person with these two.

Cordelia reminds herself to frown when she delivers the bad news. "Sorry. He and Wesley are off on some -- I don't know. Retreat. Like Iron John, with drums and visions and macho bonding."

"When's he back?" Buffy's voice is very small.

"Ooh, couple days --"

"Oh my god!" Fred says as she finally comes around the counter out of the office, Connor in her arms. "Are you Buffy? Really? The Buffy, Angel's Buffy? The slayer Buffy?"

Buffy looks over at Cordelia, pleading and questioning all at once. "This is Fred," Cordy says. "Fred, this is that Buffy. Fred's from Pylea --"

"Texas, actually."

"-- Did Angel tell you about Pylea? Fred was a cow. They made me princess."

"Um --" Buffy says, looking at Fred, then at Cordy, and back again. "Okay? Hi, Fred."

"Hi," Fred says and, juggling the baby, shakes Buffy's hand about sixty times. Her eyes are big and her mouth's agape, and she looks like a twelve year old meeting Britney or something. Cordy wants to hug her and bring her back to earth. "Did you see Cordelia with the sword? She's getting really good."

Buffy glances over and smirks. "You always had some slayer-envy."

Snorting, Cordy shakes her head. "No, that's a job I leave to the criminally psychotic and the dead."

Fred laughs, but Buffy just gets that tight look around her eyes again. Finally, shifting awkwardly, she asks, "Who's the baby?

Connor squirms and gargles, pudgy arms reaching for Cordy, so she takes him. "Angel must have told you, didn't he? This is Connor --" She leans in toward Buffy and Connor grabs her finger. Buffy smiles, effortlessly this time. "Angel didn't tell you?"

"No?" Buffy looks at the baby, then back at Fred. "What should he have told me?"

"Connor's --" Fred says but Cordy thrusts him at her and stands up.

"Nothing," she says, wiping her hands on her skirt and grinning. "God, I can't believe you're here. This is so great. Where're you staying?"

"This is a hotel, right?" Buffy asks, squinting at Connor suspiciously. "I kind of figured I --"

"Oh, this place's a dump," Cordy says and pulls Buffy to her feet. "No one'd stay here if they didn't have to -- sorry, Fred, but you know it's true. Why don't you stay with me? We can do the whole girls' night thing, sleepover, go dancing." Buffy looks dubious. She looks Giles, actually, or like Wesley when he forgets where he is and gets that lecturing-Watcher tone. "You said you needed a day off. C'mon --"

She's pulling Buffy out the door, and Buffy's twisting around, saying goodbye to Fred, and the sooner Cordy gets her out of here, the better.


She knows that communication with Sunnydale is a piecemeal thing. It's basically been up to her and Willow to keep the lines open -- and if anyone had told her back in high school that the most frequently-recurring number on her long-distance bill was going to be Willow Rosenberg's, Cordy would have laughed them out of town. But she hasn't talked to Willow since before Christmas. She just assumed that it would occur to Angel that the love of his life, his soulmate, his yin and the Sally to his Harry, might be interested to know he had a son.

Apparently not. And while Cordy would pay any price to be in the room and see Buffy's face when he does tell her? It's not her place to break the news.

Especially not when Buffy feels about as strong as a birch branch and looks just as curvy. She's got circles under her eyes and her hair's a little greasy. Even the braids don't hide that.

"What's up with Willow, anyway?" Cordy asks as she empties ice into the blender. The bag of frozen raspberries slides across the counter. "Thanks, Dennis." She adds the fruit and latches down the lid and hits 'pulse' to break up the ice.

Buffy's mouth is moving but Cordy can't hear over the blender.


"She's okay," Buffy says and everything in her tone says she's not. "She and Tara -- do you know Tara?"

"Long hair, big chest, stutter?"

Buffy smiles at that. "You noticed her chest?"

"Sure," Cordy says, pouring several liberal splashes of tequila into the fruity ice and mixing it again. "Can't really not. Beautiful. If you're into Jayne Mansfield." She pours two big glasses and hands one to Buffy. "Drink up."

"I'm not really friends with alcohol," Buffy says as she peers into the glass. "Beer and whiskey haven't been kind --"

"This is a margarita," Cordy says. "Totally different. Like a smoothie. With a kick." Dennis pulls out the other kitchen chair for her and she sits down, clinking her glass against Buffy's. "You'll love it, I promise. So, Willow and Tara?"

Buffy takes a tentative sip, then another, more confident one, and smiles as she shivers. "Kick is right. Yeah, Willow and Tara kind of broke up --"

"Let me guess -- Tara caught her kissing Xander Harris?" Damn, this is a fine margarita. She downs another frigid sip. She could teach the bartenders in this town a thing or two.

"What?" Buffy pushes the hair back from her face. "You're still bitter about that?"

"No, of course not. Kidding," Cordy says. "A little." She doesn't care one way or the other about Willow's Sapphic misadventures, except Buffy seems to. And if Cordy's honest, she does care. A little. Buffy doesn't need to know that, though. No one does.

A margarita and a half later, and Buffy looks a lot better. Cordy convinced her to take down the braids, then, when she got a whiff of her hair --"Doublemeat Pal --" Buffy started to say, but Cordelia didn't need or want to know -- made her shower. Now she's pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, wet hair spilling over her shoulders in long, loose brackets. She's wrapped in one of Cordy's good towels.

Despite the flush and margarita-induced grin, she still looks -- weird. Way too small, underfed and tense.

"God, Buffy --" Cordy lifts Buffy's arm and tests her theory. She can almost close her fingers around Buffy's upper arm. "A little less anorexia, little more Anna Kournikova, okay?"

"Hands off," Buffy says, but she doesn't move.

"Just saying, there's chic, and then there's sick, you know?"

Buffy laughs, and even though it's just the tequila, Cordy's relieved. Buffy used to have the kind of body most girls would kill for -- small and curvy and strong. There are still hints of it, but she's a little starved and a lot tense, and the sight of it's doing strange things to Cordy's stomach.

When Buffy drops the comb and leans over to pick it up, the towel comes loose around her back and there's a faded bruise there, under her shoulder blade, that could be the size of a boot.

It could be from slaying, but Cordelia's not too sure.

"So," Cordy says and plants her hands on her hips. "We're all liquored up, you smell like a human being again, and I'm wondering -- where do we go from here?"

Hair falling back down her neck, Buffy straightens up and shrugs. "I don't know, I mean I --"

"Dancing," Cordy says. "The question was rhetorical."

This feels like Remedial Buffy. Like Buffy's amnesiac and Cordy needs to show her by example exactly how they interact. At the same time, it's been a really long time -- since Harmony, and that didn't end all that well -- since Cordelia's had a chance to just hang out with another girl. Do girl things, drink and get silly and dress up and go out and break hearts.

Fred doesn't really count; she came over one night, and it was a total bust, though she did splice into something and redo Cordy's cable. Now she gets everything for free and all her lights have dimmer switches, but still. Her standing Thursday-night 'Friends' and bitching date with Lorne comes close, but there's only so much even MAC can do for green skin and red lips.

So even if this is amnesia Buffy, mopey and slumping, though drunk, this is probably the best night off Cordy's had in a long time. Which is sad on just about every level, but she's determined not to think about that.

"Am I your Barbie?" Buffy asks, tugging the towel up over her chest while Cordelia rustles through her closet looking for something for Buffy to wear.

Cordy glances at her in the mirror; Buffy brought her third drink into the room with her, and she's nursing it like a pro. "Something like that," she says. "Basically, I can't go out dancing with the lovechild of Velma Dinkley and Maynard G. Krebs. I'm sure you understand."

"If I'd known," Buffy says, and pauses to finish off her drink, then flops back onto the bed, "I'd've packed my very best skankerella outfit."

Cordy's hand tightens on the hanger. "I. Am. Not. A. Skank. Nor have I ever --"

Buffy rolls her head over to look at her, a slow smirk spreading across her face. "Come on, Cordy. You were like Sunnydale's Skank Sweetheart, three years running."

Cordy tosses the black skirt that's never fit her right at the bed. "You must be mistaking me for Harmony Kendall. Which I can forgive once, you being back from the dead and all, but not twice."

"Oh, god, Harmony." Buffy rubs her eyes and throws her arms out to the sides. "She still a vampire?"

"Not exactly something you recover from," Cordy says, flicking through the hangers for a shirt -- any shirt, at this point -- for Buffy.

"No, I mean, is she --" Buffy struggles up onto one arm. "I like that one. The pink one. Can I wear that?"

Cordy bites her lip, considering. She hasn't worn it yet, but it's sheer and sexy and it'd do way more for Buffy's color than her own. Pastels are tricky for her. "Sure, help yourself."

Buffy's got to be drunk; she actually bounces on the bed in triumph. If she starts clapping her hands, Cordy might have to rethink this whole outing.

Maybe despite herself, maybe to get Buffy to smirk again, or maybe just because it's damn hot, Cordy goes for the Faith-lite look, burgundy tuxedo trousers that cling low on her hips and a silver halter that she has to shimmy and gasp to get into. It's worth the struggle, though, just like she knew it would be.

She leans over her vanity, hair held up in one hand, searching for the big brass clip, when Buffy says, "You've got a tattoo."

For a second, Cordy wants to say right back to her, And you've got a bruise. Let's not trade. But she's found the clip and she fixes her hair and just says, "I do. You?"

In the mirror, she sees Buffy touch the side of her neck, then quickly drop her hand. "No," Buffy says and looks up to meet Cordelia's eyes. She's pulled the shirt on, but hasn't buttoned it up, and her arms are crossed over her chest like a virgin on prom night. "You look -- Wow, Cordy."

Cordy does a half-spin, kicking out her leg -- Buffy's not the only one goofy on tequila, she's got the mother of all buzzes in the seams of her skull and down every branching vein in her body -- and ends in a burlesque flounce, gripping the edge of the vanity and flipping her head back. "I do, don't I? You wouldn't look half-bad yourself if you'd just get dressed."

Buffy plucks at the neck of her shirt. "Don't think I can wear this without --"

Oh, Christ. "A bra?"

"Yeah. Mine was black, and that's just --"

Cordy can feel her nose wrinkle. "Say no more. I think I've got --" Yanking open her underwear drawer, which she still hasn't quite reorganized since Fred and Gunn took their little tour of her most private possessions, she digs until she finds what she needed. Little cream bra with just enough padding: it should do the trick. "Here."

Buffy catches the bra with both hands. "I don't think I want to know why you've got a bra in my size in there."

"What, someone never left his boxers or something after a night at your place?"

All about getting the audience to react. That's the look she's been waiting for, surprise stretching Buffy's face, mingling fast with an eww and a large wash of curiosity.

Cordy grins and Buffy shakes back her hair, losing her shyness, and holds the bra up to her breasts. She's so thin, ribs visible, and for a moment Cordy feels like she's that thin, too, the ache of tight skin and bone grinding on bone.

"Doesn't fit," Buffy says, looking up at Cordy through her lashes as she drops the bra.

"Too big?"

Buffy answers Cordelia's grin with one of her own. "Bitch. Not my fault some flat-chested girl left her training bra here." Buffy's half-smirking now, and her hair's drying, lightening up into the golden fall Cordy remembers. She tilts her chin up and the smirk goes full-force. "You like 'em young, Cordy?"

"No!" Cordelia lobs the hairbrush at her, but Buffy ducks it easily, laughing. Ingrid wasn't young, she was just one of those tall, skinny -- okay, flat-chested and rangy as a cowboy on meth -- women who always seem to follow Cordelia around. And she was bored, it was the summer and Fred was hiding in her room and Gunn and Wes were doing their Bickersons' mating dance of arm-wrestling and darts and stupid guy things, so what the hell? She took Ingrid home.

"You do," Buffy crows, rolling out of the way when Cordelia launches herself at her. She doesn't roll far enough, and Cordelia grabs one wrist while Buffy shakes with laughter. Slim and strong and God, Buffy made good use of Cordelia's Kiehl's stash, because she smells like cocoa butter and her skin's softer than cashmere. "You like girls! Little ones with itty bitty titties and high voices and -- Oooh. Do you make them call you 'Miss Chase'?"

"Get dressed," Cordy says, yanking Buffy up to an almost-sitting position. "God, you're a messy drunk."

"Your fault." Buffy pouts -- wow, that's a great pout, all pink lips and flushed cheeks and abashed downward gaze. "You gave me all that slushie kicking stuff and now you've got me in your room and you're going to ravish me."

"No, I'm going to take you dancing. Just. Get. Dressed." No wonder she and Angel were meant for each other; they're both pretty and about as thick as asphalt.

Buffy fidgets with the buttons on her shirt and finally looks up. "But I don't have a bra."

"So?" Cordelia fixes her with the Angry Mom Stare, the one she used to use for auditions for cleaning products and Calgon commercials. The one that brooks no backtalk. It works pretty well on the guys, too.

Buffy stares back and, okay. It's not like Cordelia never noticed how pretty Buffy is. Of course she noticed; that's just what girls do. You have to keep an eye on everyone, especially the competition. She never would have talked to Buffy Summers that first day if she hadn't noticed the perfect hair and the almost-too-long nose and cute eyes. But right now, she's almost spinning, even though she's sitting down, looking into Buffy's huge hazel eyes,

"Come here," Cordelia says and swallows, surprised at how husky she sounds. Hello, Bacall. She pulls Buffy back between her legs and does the shirt up from the bottom, each fiddly little pearl button. It clings a little to Buffy's breasts and Cordelia plucks it away, then smoothes it across Buffy's stomach. Sheer enough to tease, not transparent enough to get her arrested for solicitation. "Looks good. See?"

Right in Buffy's ear and they're so close, Cordelia's hands still on Buffy's waist, that when Buffy shivers in response, it goes right through Cordelia and takes up with the tequila-buzz.

They both look good, but it's more than that. Buffy covers Cordy's hands with her own and leans back. "Last time we got all dressed up like this, we ended up in that cabin --"

"No cabins in LA," Cordy says, low and secret, and the shell of Buffy's ear is hot against her lips. The warmth in her belly, it's getting stronger and stronger, like a flag flapping in the breeze but growing. "And, actually, last time we got all dressed up was Prom."

Buffy squints, remembering, and this close, her neck silky-warm and her stomach rising with her breathing, Cordelia can see the spray of fine wrinkles around the edge of Buffy's eye. "You went to Prom?"

"Bitch --" Cordy grabs one of Buffy's wrists and wrenches it back as Buffy grins. "I had a great prom. Didn't dance with Angel about a foot off the ground, but it was decent."

Buffy wriggles free, a hand on Cordelia's thigh, gripping hard, and pushes herself to her feet. "Are we dancing or what?" She grabs Cordelia, pulls her up, and they stumble a little out the bedroom door.


Cab, and wolf-whistles, and the club Cordy chooses is just right. It's not the one where she met Ingrid (nor the one the next weekend, where she met Adrianna and, later, Giselle; it's impossible, she realized sometime near the end of the summer, to meet a woman in LA with a normal name). This club is better, darker, with jazzier, less-annoying music that still pounds loud enough to roar like the ocean in her ears. And Buffy's slipping out of her hands, dancing like something caught in the wind between red and blue floodlights. In the blue, she goes lavender and ghostly; in the red, she flushes and her shirt nearly glows.

Buffy's little black skirt rides up her strong thighs, and the muscles stand out in the dark and the skin on them feels like hot velvet to Cordelia's hands. Buffy's hair whips her face, teases her neck, and those thighs flex and lower and grind.

People are watching them; their eyes glow and dart like fish.

Of course they're being watched; they're sliding around each other, and they look great, and all that vamp-killing and sword-practice have done wonders for their dancing.

Cordelia wants Buffy Summers. The weirdest thing of all is that -- it's not that weird, not compared to the rest of her life. It's actually kind of Willow-level sweet and normal. She wants her with every pore on her palms, with the breath catching in her chest and the heat tightening between her legs.

She catches Buffy around the waist with one arm and pulls her back, the silk of the skirt rasping over the warp of Cordelia's pants, and Buffy's scalp is damp with sweat when Cordy presses her mouth to the crown of her head.

"We're the best-looking people here --" Whispered hot and fast and Buffy nods, twisting in Cordelia's arm, straddling one thigh, still dancing. Always dancing.

Cordy's seen her dance before, seen Buffy fight and flip and do miracles with her body. But this is different -- this is closer, for one thing, and she feels like she is back in that cabin, fighting for her life. Keeping up.

She is keeping up, because she's a damn good dancer, and she's got the height and the ass and she can hold Buffy's skinny little hips and just rotate around her, use her like a pole, run her hands up the back of Buffy's shirt and down to the seat of her skirt, grip and pull and urge her to keep moving.

"Best looking part-demons anywhere," Buffy hisses in the next downbeat.

It snags somewhere low in Cordelia's throat, and she's not even sure what it is. A question maybe -- since when is Buffy demon? Maybe always, maybe that's her secret, but she can't ask, because Buffy's dancing away from her and someone's buying them drinks, big bucket-like Cosmos, and they're dancing.

Buffy's a wild thing.

Cordelia can see that now, see it in the swish of her hips and the grin on her face, the fierce set to her eyes, like she knows exactly what she's doing. She's small and fierce and beautiful, twirling around the spotlights, making them chase her and catching Cordy's hand and pulling her in.


"You like girls, Cordelia Chase?" Buffy asks, laughing and gasping, when they're poured, breathless and clammy with sweat, into the back of the cab. Cordy's struggling to remember her own address, and it's even harder with Buffy this close. Buffy's breath is thick with grenadine and sharp with vodka, and she's splayed half in Cordy's lap and all the heat is trembling, about to burst from Cordy's pores.

Cordy reaches up, pushing a lock of hair that's adhered to Buffy's cheek, and nods. "I think I do." Buffy's small hand is moving in circles over Cordelia's thigh, bringing up more heat, drying out her mouth. "Know I like you." God, she's drunker than she thought. She blinks. "And now is the time for honesty, apparently."

Buffy's quick, satisfied smile, almost smug, has to be a trick of the headlights in the opposite lane; when Cordelia blinks, it's gone, and Buffy's just smiling. "I'm sleeping with Spike."

Cordy's hand closes in Buffy's hair, tugs her head back and exposes her throat. Angel's old scar is invisible, but she's looking for new ones. She wants to shudder, or spit, or something. "That's really disgusting."

"Yeah," Buffy says, pitching forward as the cab brakes for a stop light and crawling into Cordy's lap, singing. "Revolting, repellent, repu-oo-lio."

At least now Cordy knows where the bruise came from. Buffy's looking up at her, hand braced on the seat, and she's doing that big-eyed hypnotic thing again.

"You're different," Buffy says, almost in wonder. "You're all -- all --"

Cordelia doesn't find out what she is, because the cab's at her curb now.

They're home, and thank God for Dennis, because Cordy can't even remember if she owns keys, let alone where they might be, and Buffy's hanging off of her, humming a very off-beat version of Fatboy Slim.

Inside, and Buffy might be messy, and mopey, and drunk off her ass, but she's still Buffy, and she takes a second to fix her hair, then Cordy's, before pushing Cordy against the door and pulling her down. Kissing her like it's first aid, hands on her shoulders, pulling and sucking. Cordy tries to steady herself, but her hand slips off Buffy's waist, onto her ass, and pulls her closer.

"What am I?" she asks, kissing up the curve of Buffy's cheekbone, struggling to hold her still.

Huge eyes, hard grip, Buffy pulling her over to the couch. "You're -- you're -- all different. Grown-up. And sexy."

When Buffy says 'sexy', she sounds like she can't really believe it, and now they're landing on the couch, wrestling backward. Cordy tries to pin Buffy, hisses at her to keep still, but Buffy's laughing and the slayer, so she pushes back, wrestles Cordy up against the arm of the couch, the laughter flowing out of her like water, like air that Cordy leans up into, sucking down, kissing her hard. Kissing her breathless until Buffy relaxes, just a bit, a tiny softening of her posture and loosening of her grip, and then, a knee planted between Buffy's legs, Cordy pushes and flips until she's on top.

She's been working out; she's not just Vision Girl any more. She knows what to do.

"What am I?" Buffy asks, fingers in Cordy's hair, tugging at the clip until it's free and curtaining their faces. She presses her hips up, hand on Cordy's ass, pushing her in. "Only fair."

"You're Buffy," Cordy says, kissing down Buffy's throat, closing her lips around the straining tendon and sucking until Buffy's head tips all the way back. Vampires, Cordy thinks, they really screw with your mind. She works her tongue over Angel's scar -- slicker than the rest of the skin -- and sucks until Buffy's biting back a moan and hitting at Cordy's back with her fist. "You're you, and it's not -- it's not --"

She forgets what she was going to say -- not repulsive, nothing repellent, just you -- because Buffy's craning up, struggling to sit up, kissing her again. Buffy's kisses are wet and toothy, insistent, and her hand's pushing up under Cordy's top and Cordy's massaging one of Buffy's breasts -- small but firm, the nipple riding her palm, twisting and stoking the heat inside her -- and the kiss just keeps going. Easing and slowing so they can catch their breath, then speeding back up. Faster, and harder, Buffy nipping down on Cordy's lower lip and sucking it until it aches, then laughing and peppering her face with little kisses.

Faster, then sweeter, then nothing like sweet, but all feral and grabby, Buffy straddling Cordy's thigh and Cordy pushing up Buffy's skirt and working open her own fly, and this is awkward and perfect. The bed would be better, but this needs to happen now, she's got Buffy now, sighing and throatily murmuring in her arms, and groping her, eyes gone wide and dazed, and her hips are moving in time with Cordy's.

She catches sight of them in the window behind the couch, Buffy all light and movement, her own body darker, a little stiller, and it's beautiful. Buffy's thighs are slick, her lips soaked with wet, and she presses down against Cordy's palm, twitches her hips and grunts when Cordy finds her clit.

She tips Buffy back, lets herself look at this, Buffy's face twisted-up and red, her legs open and arms reaching, and it's more than -- more than --.

"Fuck me," Buffy says, closing her eyes.

Cordy swallows a solar cloud of heat and no air. Buffy says it again, sweet and sour all at once, and did Spike teach her that? Buffy's hands scramble at Cordy's pants and almost reflexively, Cordy goes up on her knees and helps Buffy tug the pants down. Down, and tangled, but finally off, and she pulls Buffy back into her lap.

"What do you want?" Cordy asks, clearing the hair from Buffy's face, kissing her as shallowly, more shallowly, than she wants to.

"You can do it, can't you?" Buffy whispers, smirking again, all teasing and quick, pushing hips. Hand on Cordy's shoulder, the other on Cordy's breast, squeezing. "It's not that hard, and --"

"I can do it," Cordy says, turning her face and kissing the back of Buffy's hand with her open mouth. She sucks two of Buffy's fingers into her mouth, hard, all the way in, then softly suckling, working her tongue around them, watching Buffy react.

She wants to fuck Buffy. She wants her just like this, squirming and fighting and catty, beautiful as a wild cat.

She pushes Buffy's fingers out of her mouth and squeezes her ass. "Just wondering if you can. Take it, give it back. Can you?"

Buffy's laughing again, twisting out of Cordy's hold and flopping back onto the couch. One bare thigh shines in the dark and when Buffy pulls Cordy on top of her, Cordy straddles that thigh, squeezes it between her own, rubbing her cunt until Buffy realizes what it is. Her eyes fly open and she gasps and Cordy dives down, hand spreading Buffy's legs wider, throwing the other leg up onto the back of the couch.

"I can," Buffy says and coughs. Lust does this thing to people's faces, makes them look scared, and Buffy, Cordelia knows, hates being scared. "I can."

"Know you want to," Cordy says, drawing two knuckles up between Buffy's lips, parting her, the hot slickness making her own pussy clench tighter than ever. "Feel that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, oh, God," Buffy says, squeezing her eyes shut and shuddering as Cordy moves her wet fingers up Buffy's stomach, between her breasts, to her lips. Her eyes fly open when she feels them, and her lips pout, then part, and she sucks Cordy's fingertips inside.

The sensation spirals like a rocket through Cordy, hard sucking like a tongue right on her own clit, and she grinds down against Buffy, brings Buffy's hand to her own mound and presses it there.

The sucking pauses and they're staring at each other again. Drunkenness falls out of Cordy, and, she thinks, Buffy, too, in this moment that just goes on and on. Vanishes, leaving them hot and needy but clear-headed and freaked.

Then Buffy moves her hips, Cordy cups Buffy's cheek briefly before bringing her hand between Buffy's legs again, and she drops down, kissing her, twisting her fingers until Buffy gasps.

It's messy, and awkward, and her back hates her for this weird straddling crouch, but Buffy's mouth is hot and sweet, and she's soaking Cordy's fingers, drawing them up inside while Cordy twists her hand to run her thumb up the side of Buffy's clit, and doing this feels almost as good as what Buffy's hand is doing to her. Buffy's not quite sure what to do -- her hand keeps stilling, even as she kisses more fiercely, testing Cordy, checking her reactions -- but it's all good, so good and hot that Cordy's moaning against Buffy's mouth and rubbing herself hard and fast.

Buffy almost shouts, then pushes two fingers inside Cordy -- God, two small, strong Slayer fingers, crooking and stroking inside, sending waves that triple and swell all the way through Cordy -- and Cordy moves her aching, numb-burning mouth to Buffy's nipple. Bites as she scrapes her thumb harder against Buffy's clit, crossing her fingers inside the overwhelming tension, then bites again when, swearing, Buffy jerks upward before falling back.

They're tumbling off the couch, elbows and foreheads knocking things, rolling a little, and this is better than dancing. Wilder, private, Cordy on top of Buffy, strumming her tongue against Buffy's nipple as she works a third finger inside. Keening, Buffy's undulating, hips rising, then falling, her head hitting the floor in time with Cordy's fingers. She's about to come, all the tension that's shooting through her, it's obvious, and inside, she's gone totally slick, that soft pebbly skin stretching and tightening, smoothing out, around Cordy's hand. But she's still fucking Cordy back, biting down on her shoulder, her cheek, the side of her breast while she twists and thrusts her fingers and now she's yelling.

"Stay still," Cordy grunts. "Buffy. Wait."

Not yet, she's thinking, but Buffy's still waving and squeaking, and she has to do this fast.

Cordy holds her down, fucks her hand in deep and scrambles around, knee barking Buffy's skull, twisting, hand caught, until she kneels over Buffy's face, bringing her lips to Buffy's mound. She slides her tongue around Buffy's swollen clit, wraps it like a snake, and sucks until Buffy screams. She tastes like sweat and high-tide, salt and sugar swirling together, hotter and wetter and Cordelia sucks, tastes, swallows until she loses herself. Until Buffy's coming, around Cordy's hand, into her face, screaming into Cordy's thigh and biting down, shaking, her thighs locking around Cordy's head, holding her tightly in place.

That scream is surrender and urging onward, release that builds, demanding more.

Cordy keeps sucking, sucking and thrusting her fingers a little farther, keeping Buffy coming until Buffy shoves her away. Hard, and Cordy tumbles to the side, stars in front of her eyes and only the sound of Buffy's rattling gasps audible in the whole world.

Then Buffy's on top of her. Shoving Cordy's arms over her head, pushing her shirt all the way up, and touching Cordy too lightly. Just a fingertip, like she's exploring, like this is a game, and Cordy rolls her head back and forth.

"Christ, just let me -- fuck, Buffy --"

Buffy glances up, eyes slitted and mouth grinning. "Say please, Cordy."

"You're getting me back, aren't you?"

Buffy just ducks her head and licks a trembling trail across Cordy's lower stomach. It tickles and hurts and Cordy tries to keep still.

She can't, not with that one teasing finger rolling between her lips, almost at her clit, her hole, but never there. Her nipples burn and ache as her back arches and she's got to come, needs to feel it, needs Buffy. Christ, she needs -- "Buffy --"

"What's the magic word?"

"Now," Cordy says, breath gone light and sharp in her lungs like shards of glass. "Now, and more, and hurry."

Buffy purses her lips, humming, the vibrations transferring over Cordy's mound, making her writhe. "Hmm. No."

"Yes --" Cordy's hips buck up, and she hates Buffy right now. Hates her in that way that's actually love, full-blown and packed with need, overrunning with it, as she grabs the back of Buffy's head and pushes it down. "Yes. And now."

Weird, glittering eyes looking up at her, checking her out, and Cordy takes a breath, manages to smile. Every heartbeat makes her tremble, brushes her skin against Buffy's face, and patience is no kind of virtue.

"You are such a --" Buffy starts to say, and her tongue darts out. The first stroke sends sheet lightning through Cordy, white and sharp, and she can hear herself babbling.

"Just like that, God, Buffy, do that --"

Buffy's a quick learner; Cordy supposes she has to be. Comes with the job or something. Hard little licks, her tongue stabbing, then soothing, and Cordy pulls one knee up to her chest, opens herself farther.

"Just do what you like, like that, so good --"

Humming in reply, like a slower kind of laughter, Buffy braces one hand on Cordy's thigh, spreading her, rolling her face between Cordy's lips, tongue teasing her hole, then moving up. Two fingers inside, twisting again, and Cordy bears down, clutching them, shouting when Buffy's thumb grazes her asshole.

"God, Cordy. Slut or what?" Buffy says and rubs her thumb knuckle harder against Cordy's hole.

"Something -- Jesus -- now --" It's a litany of encouragement, and approval, and urging, and there must be a rhythm here, like heartbeats but faster, her hips canting and falling, Buffy's mouth and fingers jerking and twirling until Cordy's suffused in heat and gone entirely rigid with need, words dried to dust in her mouth.

Buffy doesn't know what to do, and her ignorance is Cordelia's bliss, all this crazed need spilling out and over, and when she trembles and breaks, coming, Buffy stills, lifting her head slightly, watching.

She's going to come, she's going to come, into Buffy's mouth, around her fingers. Into, on, with Buffy. It's that thought, and Buffy's wide, knowing eyes, watching, smirking, touching her, that's sending her over the edge, saying Buffy's name like a mantra and a plea.

Watching, eyes intent and mouth swollen, shining, and Cordelia comes harder, lifting and loosening, screwing herself down harder on Buffy's fingers until it passes. Like a stormcloud barreling past, leaving her spent and empty. Twitching as Buffy crawls up her body and touches her face like a blind kid, wonderingly.

"God," Cordy says hoarsely. She can't really open her eyes. "I --"

Buffy kisses her lightly and Cordy tastes herself smeared all over Buffy's lips. She kisses back harder and Buffy breaks it, says, "Think how much better it'll be when you say please."

She'd shove her away, wrestle and fight, but Cordelia's body is slack and warm, impossible to move. So she smiles and pets Buffy's hair with a clumsy hand. "That's assuming I give you another chance."

They should really get off the floor. Shower, or at least turn in, but it feels kind of nice here, Buffy's sharp little body poking into her own, hot breath pooling over her chest. Buffy yelps when the blanket from the couch unfolds and flaps, settling over them.

"Thanks, Dennis," Cordy murmurs.

"Was he watching?" Buffy whispers.



"You're sleeping with Spike," Cordy points out. "My voyeur ghost's nothing compared to that."

"True." Buffy's actually giggling as she yawns and stretches, then tucks herself closer. "I really am slumming it lately, aren't I? First Spike, now you..."

Cordy pokes Buffy's shoulder, then tugs her hair. "The only slumming is mine. I like to think of it as charity work."

Pretty soon, she figures, as Buffy laughs, burying her face in Cordelia's arm, giggles rippling through her, they will get up. Clean up, maybe order delivery, and conk out. But she's still not quite up to moving, and Buffy's laughing, and Cordy's not about to get in the way of that.

Then again, her hair's going to be totally flat if she lies here much longer.