When Angel and Cordelia are affected by ‘chaos mist’ during a demon fight,
their inhibitions disappear and the groping fun begins.

CONTENTS:  C/A in AtS
CATEGORY: Smut/Humor
RATING: NC-17
LENGTH: Short Story / 3000 words
CHALLENGE CREDIT: Vision Girl / Lysa Says: Challenge Me / Challenge #15
CHALLENGE QUOTE REQUIREMENTS: “Cheesecake, Railroads”
FICPIC CREDIT: Lysa
STATUS: Completed. Posted June 2026.

Best Things Ever

The chaos demon exploded in a shower of swirling green mist in a Silver Lake alley a couple blocks from Cordelia’s apartment at the Pearson Arms. One second Angel and Cordelia were trading punches and quips; the next realized the strange substance wasn’t dissipating. It clung to their clothes and skin.

“Eew! There’s demon ick all over me,” Cordelia tried shaking it off, but a subtle glow lit areas where it touched her skin.

Angel confirmed, “Same here.” He felt something strange settling over him, a need to loosen up and do something that didn’t involve killing demons.

Having been out of range, Wesley remained untouched by it. He took one look at their glassy eyes and flushed cheeks and immediately started issuing orders. “Right—both of you to Cordelia’s flat. You need to get out of those saturated clothes and shower immediately to rinse every remnant of that toxin off your skin.”

Angel frowned, already swaying a little. “I’d rather be at my place. We can just head back to the office and—”

“No,” Wesley cut him off, firm and surprisingly authoritative, reminding him they were far closer to Cordelia’s apartment. “Decrease exposure now. This is precisely the reason we elected to store emergency clothing and gear there.”

“I don’t give up closet space to just anybody,” Cordelia pointed out.

Wesley urged them to get started. “Go. I’ll take the motorcycle back to the office and begin researching a counter-spell or potion right away. Check in with me once you’re clean.”

“Dibs on the first shower.” Cordelia grabbed Angel’s arm and tugged him toward her building.

At the Pearson Arms, Cordy turned the knob until the water was nearly scalding, scrubbing thoroughly, and let Phantom Dennis help with the hard-to-reach spots. It may have taken a little longer than the quick rinse she planned.

Rapping a knuckle against her bathroom door, Angel called out, “Hurry it up, Cordy. This stuff is tingling.” The door opened almost immediately with Cordelia swathed in a fluffy towel, her hair wrapped in another. 

Angel gulped slowly at the damp skin exposed as she padded past him, tempted to reach out see if that golden flesh was as silky smooth as it looked. He forced himself to look away as she rummaged through her panty drawer. “Go on,” she waved him off. “I’ll get dressed and dry my hair out here while you’re showering. Your clothes are in the closet.” 

The pulse of the water hit his skin like it never had before. No longer steaming hot because a certain someone had used up most of the hot water. The temperature didn’t matter. Every little drop felt like a miniature massage. Angel pressed his hands against the cool tiles letting the water sluice over his back, and then standing, head arched back to let it run down the smooth planes and creases. It felt damn good. Almost too good to get out.

He could tell that Cordelia was back in the living room. The noise of the blow dryer had stopped some time ago, and she had flipped on some television show he could never remember which friend was which. Drying off expeditiously, Angel found the spare black shirt, pants, and other necessities in the far reaches of Cordelia’s closet. 

His fingers brushed against something wispy and soft along the way—a dress he remembered her wearing, and he captured the fabric between his fingertips. A smile tilted the corners of his mouth at the memory, and then opened up into a full grin as he took a little detour where that dress might start to come off. That kind of fantasizing was usually met with a hard stop—especially with Cordelia in mind, but tonight he let that image linger just a little bit longer.

The chaos mist had already worked its magic seeping deep into their systems and was now in full, glorious effect. With a little hop in his step, Angel headed out to the living room where he found Cordelia, now dressed in a soft colorful tank top and shorts. She was on the couch and laughing hysterically at the scene on the television until she flopped back on the pillows, hand rubbing her taut belly because it hurt from the effort. 

Her eyes lit up instantly upon seeing him. “Angel—hi! Look at you being all stealthy vampire. I didn’t hear you come in.”

The noise from the comedy made his ears hurt. He reached forward to grab the remote, and struggled to find the volume button, which only made him the butt of another snarky remark. By some miracle, his thumb found the mute button. “Does your head hurt? Mine is buzzing.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Vision Girl here. Headaches are my daily routine. This is different. A lot like downing three shots of tequila. I feel kinda drunk.” Narrowing her gaze at him, she realized Angel was actually wavering on his usually very steady feet. “What about you?”

He took the hand she stretched out letting her tug him down beside her. She poked at his chest letting her finger linger against the firm muscle before telling him, “You’re not supposed to get drunk, mister. Vampires have um… that, um… irresistibility factor—no, that’s not it.”

Cordelia thought he was irresistible? “That, too,” Angel found it funnier than he should. A rumbled laugh followed, his voice already lower and rougher, eyes holding that hazy golden flicker at the edges. Correcting her, he said, “Resistance. Alcohol has little effect on us.”

She tucked her legs under her, leaning closer, fully pressing a hand on his chest as she told him, “You’re drunk on green demon spume, like the fizzy foam in champagne, going to your head.”

Every casual brush against him felt electric. He needed to feel her skin under his fingers, and no more than thought about it before it happened. The silky texture of her hair brushing over her bare shoulder, his thumb tracing the path of her collarbone. “Chaos mist,” he corrected her with a tipsy smirk while letting his fingertips make the return journey barely skimming the soft, warm skin. “Not alcohol. Different rules.” His fingers kept tracing slow and absent patterns as if he couldn’t quite stop touching her.

From the phone on the coffee table, Wesley’s tinny voice crackled through the speaker. “I am cross-referencing every chaos-demon toxin in the archives.”

“Don’t bother, Wes. We’re fine. Angel’s not being his fuddy-duddy self.” Cordy giggled harder as Angel’s thumb stroked the side of her neck and sent sparks straight down her spine.

“Oh, dear. Why can’t it simply be the deadly kind of demon toxin?” No answer came from the pair curled up a little too close on the couch. Wesley droned on asking about the details of their symptoms, and cringing at the rare responses he received. Quickly narrowing down the possibilities to a sub-set of demon excretions that produced lowered inhibitions.

His concern seemed silly and overblown during the two seconds they could focus on his voice. The last thing they heard before Angel shoved the receiver back down on the phone was a warning, “Stay put. Do not—under any circumstances—engage in anything that might… exacerbate the effects.”

The phone clicked off. Wesley was miles away and his urgent warning only gave them an idea for a little fun.

They were stuck in Cordy’s living room with nothing but the buzz in their veins and way too much time. “We could watch TV,” she reached for the remote practically crawling over him to get it. “This is the one where…”

Angel won the remote battle, but didn’t bother to push her back toward her side of the couch. “Let’s play a game, a challenge,” Angel made the suggestion like the idea had just beamed down from the Powers themselves. “Best Things Ever. First one to convince the other wins.”

Cordy arched a brow, already grinning. “You’re on, tall, dark, and impaired.”

They started easy—favorite movies, best clients. But the mist made it impossible to sit still. Angel kept shifting closer on the couch, one heavy arm draped along the back behind Cordelia’s shoulders. She kept poking his chest for emphasis, giggling every time her fingers plucked at the buttons there.

Angel leaned in, voice low and proud. “You know what’s better than anything? My Plymouth GTX convertible. That engine roars when she wakes up and then she just… flies. Smooth. Powerful. Looks damn good doing it.”

Cordelia tipped her head back, laughing brightly, her damp hair brushing his arm. “Oh please. Nothing beats the feeling of riding a thoroughbred. All that raw power between your thighs, the way it moves under you when you really let it go…” She bit her lip, eyes sparkling with drunken mischief.

Angel’s hand settled heavier on her thigh, thumb stroking slow circles. “Yeah?”

Cordy’s train of thought visibly wandered. “Although… I do like fast cars too. The really expensive kind. Preferably with some hot, rich movie mogul behind the wheel who lets me put my feet on the dash.”

A wicked, tipsy smirk spread across Angel’s face. He leaned in until his lips nearly brushed her ear. “I could give you a good ride, Cordy. Darla used to call me her stallion.”

Cordelia burst into giggles, the sound high and breathy, mixed with a little gasp as she swatted his chest. “Ego much, big guy?”

Angel just shrugged, completely unfazed, his fingers still tracing lazy patterns on her bare thigh. “Just stating facts.”

Then Cordy leaned forward, elbows on her thighs, and declared, “Cheesecake!”

Angel blinked. “What?”

“Cheesecake,” she repeated, slower, savoring the word. “It’s the best thing ever. Creamy, sweet, just the right amount of tang. You take one bite and it melts on your tongue and you’re like, yes, this is why I exist. And then it’s gone way too fast, but that’s part of the charm. You chase the last crumb like it’s the meaning of life.” She licked her lips for emphasis. “Cheesecake, Angel. End of argument.”

He watched her mouth the whole time. Something in his eyes went dark and hungry.

“Railroads,” he countered, voice dropping an octave.

Cordy snorted. “Railroads? Seriously?”

“Railroads,” he insisted, leaning in until their knees pressed together. “Iron and steam and human stubbornness laying down mile after mile of unstoppable forward motion. You stand on a platform and feel the ground shake and you know something bigger than you is coming through. Power. Progress. Raw, beautiful engineering.” His hand landed on her thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles over bare skin. “Railroads, Cordelia. End of argument.”

She laughed—bright, tipsy, delighted. “Oh my God, you dork. You’re really gonna lose to cheesecake with that Victorian wet dream?”

Angel’s fingers tightened on her thigh. “Prove it.”

Cordy’s eyes sparkled with challenge. She twisted toward the kitchenette, snagged the last slice of cheesecake from the fridge—still in its plastic container—and brought it back like a trophy. She peeled the lid off slowly, deliberately. Then she scooped a generous bite onto her finger, popped it into her mouth, and sucked the creamy topping clean with an obscene little pop.

“Mmm,” she hummed, holding his gaze. “See? Yummy to the last bite.”

Angel made a low, wrecked sound in his throat—half growl, half groan. His hand shot out, cupped the back of her neck, and pulled her in.

The kiss was messy and perfect. Mouths sliding, tongues teasing, the faint sweetness of cheesecake still on her lips. Cordy’s hands fisted in his shirt; Angel’s free hand slid up her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through thin cotton. She gasped into his mouth and he swallowed the sound like it belonged to him.

When they broke apart, breathing hard, Cordy smirked. “Your turn to prove railroads are better.”

Angel’s eyes flashed gold for a second. “Dare me.”

“I dare you,” she said, voice husky, “to show me those fangs without actually biting. I want to feel them. And I want to like it.”

Angel’s game face slid forward with a wet, shifting crunch that should have been gross but somehow wasn’t. The ridges, the golden eyes, the fangs—Cordy had seen it a hundred times in fights. Never like this. Never with his mouth hovering an inch from her throat while his hands roamed.

He dragged the blunt edge of one fang down the side of her neck, slow and careful. The scrape was cool, sharp, electric. Cordy’s breath hitched; her nipples tightened instantly. “Feel that?” he murmured against her skin. “That’s control. Precision. Like laying track through impossible terrain.”

She shivered hard. “Okay… okay, that’s unfairly hot.”

His tongue followed the same path, warm and wet, soothing the faint sting. Then he nipped—not breaking skin, just enough pressure to make her moan. The sound was embarrassingly loud in the quiet apartment. Angel’s hand slipped under her tank top, palm flat against her stomach, and he groaned like the noise she made was the best thing he’d ever heard.

Cordy pushed him back against the couch cushions, straddling one thick thigh because the mist made her bold and the look on his face made her greedy. “My turn. I dare you to keep your hands above the waist for thirty seconds. No lower. Think you can handle it, Mr. Railroads?”

Angel’s laugh was dark. “Timer starts now.”

His palms slid up her sides, thumbs stroking the sides of her breasts through thin fabric. Cordy rocked against his thigh, chasing friction, and his fingers dug in harder. She counted in her head—ten… fifteen—while he mapped every inch of skin he could reach without breaking the rule. At twenty-three his thumbs brushed her nipples and she whimpered, hips jerking.

“Time,” she gasped.

Angel’s hands immediately dropped to her ass, squeezing, pulling her tighter against the hard line of him through his pants. “Cheating feels better,” he growled.

The mist surged hotter, turning every touch into liquid fire. Cordy’s fingers made quick work of his belt and zipper, shoving fabric aside until she could wrap her warm palm around his cock—thick, cool, and already leaking for her. She stroked him root to tip with a wicked little twist at the head and Angel’s head fell back against the cushions, a broken groan tearing out of him. 

“Cordy—fuck—” His vampire senses flooded: the frantic thunder of her heartbeat against his chest, the sweet-spicy scent of her arousal soaking through her tiny shorts, the slick heat of her thighs clenching around his leg. He could taste her on the air like champagne and sin.

“See?” she panted, grinning against his mouth while her hand kept up that perfect rhythm. “Cheesecake wins. Creamy. Sweet. Melts on the—oh!”

Angel flipped them suddenly, pinning her beneath him on the cushions. His hips settled between her thighs, perfect pressure, and he rocked once, twice, dragging a wrecked sound out of her throat. One big hand slid under the waistband of her shorts and panties in one smooth move, fingers finding her soaked and swollen. He groaned at how wet she already was, circling her clit with two thick fingers before sliding one deep inside her. Cordy cried out, hips bucking up to meet him. The velvet heat of her clenched around his finger, her pulse racing so loud it drowned out everything else.

“Railroads,” he whispered, fangs grazing her collarbone, voice wrecked, “keep going all night. Feel that power, Cordy? That’s me driving straight through you.”

She laughed—delighted, turned on, completely lost in the ridiculous, perfect moment—arching into his hand while her own fist tightened around him, stroking faster. “Cheesecake tastes better when I’m licking it off your—God, Angel, right there—”

They were laughing and kissing and groping like teenagers who’d discovered touching for the first time, only this was rawer, hungrier, the mist stripping away every last inhibition. Cordy’s nails raked down the cool planes of his back; Angel hissed—actually hissed—and the sound went straight between her legs. He palmed her breast fully now, rolling her nipple between thumb and finger until she arched with a broken little cry. His mouth closed over her nipple through the thin fabric of her tank top and she lost the ability to form words. Wet heat, the faint scrape of teeth, the vibration of his groan when she tugged his hair. Her hips rolled again, chasing his fingers, and Angel added a second one, curling them just right while his thumb worked her clit in tight circles.

“God, Cordy,” he muttered against her skin, voice gravel-rough. “You’re so warm. So loud. So fucking wet. I could listen to you all night.”

“Less talking, more—yes—!” She didn’t finish. The pleasure coiled tighter, her thighs trembling around his hand, and Angel kept driving her higher, fangs scraping lightly over her throat in time with every thrust of his fingers.

Right as the apartment door slammed open.

Wesley stood in the doorway, ancient book in one hand, reversal potion in the other, and an expression of pure British horror on his face.

“Oh dear Lord,” he squeaked.

Angel froze mid-thrust of his fingers. Cordy’s hand was still clenched around his cock. Her top was… somewhere. So were his pants.

Wesley’s gaze darted everywhere except at them. “The counter-spell. I—I have it. If you could just… separate. For a moment. Please.”

Cordy dropped her head back against the couch and started laughing again—helpless, giddy, mortified laughter that made Angel’s shoulders shake too. He pressed one last, soft kiss to her throat before the spell hit them like a bucket of cold water.

The glittery buzz vanished. The room felt suddenly, glaringly normal.

Wesley cleared his throat. “I’ll… just wait in the hall while you… locate your clothing.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Cordy looked up at Angel—shirtless, fangs gone, eyes wide and human again—and smirked.

“Round two after the spell wears off completely?” she whispered.

Angel’s slow, dangerous smile was all the answer she needed.

Just inches away, he solemnly gave her the win because her kisses tasted so damned good. “Cheesecake.”

“Railroads,” Cordy countered back, pulling him down to kiss him. “Very convincing argument. I’ll need a demonstration.”

The End.