Underlying attractions are exposed when Angel
gets roped into participating one of Cordelia’s photoshoots.

CONTENTS: C/A in AtS, Season 1
CATEGORY: Inspired by FanArt – an ethereal manip by Neaf / Humor & Romance
RATING: R
LENGTH: Short Story / 5,000 words
CHALLENGE CREDIT: Toutoune / Lysa Says: Challenge Me / Challenge # 16
FICPIC CREDIT (STORY): Lysa
MANIP INSPIRATION: Neaf – See Challenge Thread or End of the Story for the Image
STATUS: Completed (Posted July 2026)

EXPOSED

Cordelia slammed down the phone so fast it rattled the receiver. “Yes! My new agent is awesome.” Scraping back her chair, she headed straight into Angel’s private office where he was talking to Doyle about their latest demon encounter. Interrupting, she said, “I’ll need time off for a photoshoot. Lucien Beaumont Studios.”

Angel looked up, one brow arched. “You say that like I’m supposed to know who that is.”

He was so clueless about everything in the entertainment world. “The Lucien Beaumont,” she tried again. “Fashion photographer extraordinaire. Soft lighting, natural beauty, raw emotion—the works.”

Even though Cordelia acted like she’d just won the lottery, Angel felt the opposite. Big break? She had told them upfront that helping open Angel Investigations was just temporary—until her meteoric rise to super-stardom. He didn’t like it when she talked about being there on a short-term basis. 

Cordelia was more than just window dressing around the office. She was surprisingly helpful with the whole business side of things, organizing the office, recruiting clients by making posters, and making coffee—although that task could use serious improvement. Angel was still figuring out this supernatural detective thing, not to mention serving as a champion to the Powers That Be by handling the visions they sent Doyle’s way. Cordelia even patched him up after fights whether it was necessary or not, and he admittedly liked that.

The idea of her heading off to some ‘studio’ where a stranger might take advantage of her enthusiasm. “What exactly are you modeling—clothes?”

After a beat, Cordelia answered. “Not that my modeling job is any concern of yours, but—sure. This is art, not something sleazy.”

“Did you ask, or just agree to go?”

Cordelia’s arms crossed, she turned away so he couldn’t see the truth on her face. She took in two deep breaths measuring out a careful response before losing it. Swirling back around, she pressed her palms flat on the desk between them, leaning in. “Conversations with my agent are none of your concern, Mr. Inquisition.”

“So—,” Angel seemed to like poking the bear. 

“Not looking for a big brother, Angel.”

He managed not to flinch. Not a hint of his growing irritation at the idea showed on his face. “You’re a magnet for trouble.” 

Naturally, Cordelia took offense. Doyle cautioned him against arguing a point he was only going to lose. “Not everyone out there is a demon waiting to pounce. This could be good for her.”

“Yes! This could be a steppingstone to a big contract,” Cordelia said, eyes gleaming again. She grabbed Doyle’s arm and gave it a thankful squeeze.

Doyle had been hoping for an opening with Cordelia ever since they met. A brilliant plan came to him. One that should satisfy Angel’s over-protective habits and win him a point or two with Cordelia. “I could chaperone. Make sure nothing seedy—”

The vampire had tunnel-vision. Angel cut in, voice low. “People take advantage, Cordelia. You don’t know this guy.”

“Phone book, Angel. Look him up. His studio is legit.” She gave him the look that usually won arguments. “Besides, Doyle can come along and play bodyguard if it makes you feel better.”

Doyle straightened, grinning and congratulating himself inwardly. “Yeah, I’m all in. When and where, princess?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, two o’clock.”

Doyle’s stomach dropped. “It’s mum’s birthday.” Brachen clan chaos. Family ritual. “Don’t want to start a blood feud,” he joked, not really lying. There was zero chance he could wriggle out of it. So much for those points. “Sorry.”

Cordelia’s shoulders slumped for half a second, then realized her own plans for the job hadn’t changed. “Fine. I’ll go alone.”

Angel exhaled through his nose. “No. You won’t.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need a babysitter or a bodyguard, Angel.”

A hard stare followed as Angel reminded her “The night we met again here in L.A., you willingly walked into a vampire’s lair because you thought he might give you a movie role.”

Cordelia snorted. “It was a mansion. And Lucien Beaumont is not a vampire.”

Angel stared at her, jaw tight. But Cordelia was right here, stubborn and brilliant and refusing to be intimidated. She was growing on him in ways that frustrated and infuriated him… and made him quietly, stupidly glad she was part of his existence. He was supposed to be protecting her, not letting her walk into unknown territory alone.

“Fine,” he said at last. “I’ll go with you.”

She blinked, waiting for him to realize what he was signing up for, but Angel stubbornly kept his mouth pressed into a firm line. Decision made. End of argument. “Hello! Daylight, hero. You’re kind of allergic. Trunk?”

“Trunk.”

The Plymouth’s trunk was dark, cramped, and smelled like old leather and the faint metallic tang of weapons oil—they normally stored some back there. Angel sat with his knees drawn up, back against the spare tire, listening to the radio drift back through the slightly cracked lid. Cordelia was belting along to some pop song, off-key and unapologetic, while the car swayed through midday traffic.

“You still alive back there, or did the guilt finally finish you off?” she called.

“I’m fine,” he growled.

“Liar. You’re brooding so loud I can hear it over the music.”

He closed his eyes. The memory of Buffy’s face flickered behind his lids—guilt, love, the whole impossible tangle—and then Cordelia’s laugh cut through it like sunlight. She was growing on him. More than he wanted to admit. The way she barged into his life, refused to be intimidated by the vampire thing, kept the office running even when the clients paid in herbs and promises. He was supposed to be protecting her, not climbing into a trunk so she could pose for some photographer he’d never heard of.

The car finally pulled up outside a converted warehouse in a nicer part of town. Sunlight streamed through the high windows as Cordelia popped the trunk. Angel climbed out, blinking, and followed her inside.

The studio was everything her agent had promised: soaring ceilings, soft diffused light, racks of delicate white lace and silk, a massive bed draped in rumpled white sheets for the final shots. Monsieur Lucien Beaumont—silk scarf fluttering, dramatic hand gestures, French accent thick enough to spread on toast—greeted Cordelia like a long-lost muse.

“Ma chérie! You will be magnificent. The camera will weep for joy.”

His gaze slid past her to Angel, who had retreated to the shadows near the equipment. “And who is this?”

“My assistant,” Cordelia lied smoothly. “For today.”

The original male model lasted exactly seven minutes. Too polished. Too eager. Zero chemistry. Lucien threw his hands up theatrically. “Non! This is ruin! Send him away! Without a proper male model to act as a foil for our beautiful swan, I will have to cancel the entire shoot.”

While the assistant scrambled, Cordelia slipped behind a screen and found Angel exactly where she’d left him—arms crossed, jaw tight.

“That guy had his hands all over you,” he said, low and dangerous.

“It’s called modeling, Angel. Try not to brood so loudly. You’re going to scare the lighting guy.”

Their argument was quiet, snarky, and fiery enough that Lucien’s ears perked up from across the room. The photographer turned, eyes lighting like he’d just discovered the Holy Grail.

“You two,” he breathed. “Mon Dieu. The fire. The tension. The light on his skin… He stays.”

Angel immediately shook his head, stepping back. “No. Absolutely not. I’m only here as her protection, not to be in front of the camera.”

Lucien looked appalled. “Nonsense! You are perfect! The chemistry is electric!”

Angel turned to Cordelia, jaw set. “Not happening.” Two words more than he thought necessary.

She gave him the smirk that had been undoing him for weeks. “Please, Angel. Come to my rescue. You’d help out any other damsel in distress.”

He caved, exhaling sharply through his nose. “This is a one-time favor, Cordelia. I agreed to come as backup, not to—do whatever this is.”

“Creating art!” the photographer waxed on about his plans. Slowly, Angel got on board with the idea that Cordelia was really going to owe him one. Cleaning out the junk that had piled up in the basement, maybe. That one room would make a great place to train. “Now, both of you, clothes off.”

Angel’s eyes popped, “Naked?” I knew it!

With hand pressed to his chest, Lucien looked aghast, “No, no!” He snapped his fingers at his assistant. “Wardrobe! Bring the boxers—no, the boxer briefs. Something snug for this one, I think.” 

Distracted as he watched the assistant rush off to search for the right underwear for the shoot, Angel turned to find Cordelia stepping out of the bright flowy red dress that had not only been stylish, but had a way of covering and revealing just the right amount of golden skin. He had been pleasantly surprised—until the handsy, bulked up model with the too white smile stepped into frame.

Cordelia thought nothing about undressing in front of him. This was a job. He was just Angel, her annoying boss and unwanted big-brother substitute. That old crush was so yesterday’s news. This sweet lacy cami and panty set covered far more than her bikinis. Besides—she wasn’t blonde, and he had probably seen way too many women to care. 

The fabric slid down her body and pooled at her feet revealing the white lace camisole and matching panties beneath it were delicate, feminine, and utterly devastating—soft cups hugging her curves, scalloped edges teasing the eye, the fabric sheer enough to hint at skin without revealing too much.

Lucien and his assistant both made soft, appreciative sounds, but Angel’s reaction hit her like a physical weight. His gaze locked on her, dark and intense, sweeping over every inch of exposed skin before snapping back to her face. Their eyes met and held for a long, charged moment. Cordelia felt the heat of it, the way his stare lingered just a fraction too long, the way his jaw tightened like he was fighting the urge to look away.

He liked what he saw.

The realization sent a warm rush of confidence through her—not that she needed one—but it was nice all the same. She lifted her chin, a small, satisfied smile curving her lips. “Your turn.”

Angel seemed to have forgotten how to move. Stepping forward, Cordelia reached for the topmost button on his black shirt, her free hand cresting up his arm. The click of the camera accompanied Lucien’s, “Keep going, ma cherie. The unbuttoning is so…ooh, la, la!”

Cordelia silently agreed. They were just buttons, but every little pop revealed a tantalizing hint, and for some reason it left her buzzing. She had no idea why having seen his chest before after he’d been bruised and battered or slashed up by something gruesome. Right now was just a bit of fun that stirred up remnants of nearly forgotten fantasies. The tip of her tongue traced the bowed curve of her upper lip as she focused on the task.

One by one Cordelia opened the buttons on his shirt, her fingers brushing against his chest with every inch revealed. The tug as she pulled the tail from his waistband made his abs clench tight. “It’s only fair, isn’t it?” her eyes dark as her hands slid up the contours of his chest to push the shirt away from his shoulder. Angel shrugged it off feeling as though he needed to take a step back. Cordelia’s curious touches were doing more than just warming his skin. He stepped a hair closer instead, his mouth working half a second before his brain, “Satisfied?”

The room went still. Lucien actually clutched his scarf. “Mon Dieu… that body. Those shoulders. The definition… perfect. Stay exactly like that, my darlings. The contrast—dark trousers, bare skin, her lace… exquisite.”

Angel felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the camera. He kept the black trousers and belt on—refusing to strip down to boxers—but Lucien only waved a hand dismissively. “Trousers stay. Perfect just this way!”

Angel’s stuffy sense of outrage had been building since the moment he realized this ‘artistic’ photoshoot included a male model. Sure, he knew it wasn’t real. The idea of Cordelia pressed up against that overly bulked up, sun-streaked, chisel-ab’d, square-jawed, cheesy-smiled Ken doll was revolting. The rest of this shoot was all about dialing the sensuality up. Suddenly, his outrage was fully ignited, but he kept his mouth shut and stayed put. For her. Better him than ‘Ken’ since she insisted on this farce of a job.

They began standing together. Lucien directed them through simple poses first: Angel’s hand at Cordelia’s waist, her fingers resting lightly on his chest. Each brush of skin sent sparks racing up Angel’s arm. Her perfume—something expensive and floral—wrapped around him every time she moved. She was warm. Alive. The way her fingertips traced the line of his collarbone made his throat tighten.

“Relax, hero,” she whispered during a slow turn. “Pretend you’re saving me from a demon instead of a Nikon.”

He did. Sort of.

The poses grew more intimate. Lucien wanted trust. Surrender. Angel’s palm slid lower on her back, feeling the dip of her spine through the lace. Cordelia’s fingers traced the ridges of his abdomen, lingering over the old scars. Every touch lingered a second longer than necessary. He could feel the steady beat of her heart under his fingertips. She could feel the tension coiling in his shoulders, the way his breath hitched when her nails grazed his skin.

Lucien kept murmuring encouragement in his thick accent. “More trust… more surrender… yes, like that, my loves. Feel it.”

Angel’s mind was a storm. This was supposed to be pretend. Just helping her out. But the heat of her body, the way she looked at him—like she was seeing the man, not the vampire—made something deep inside him ache with want. He was still hung up on Buffy, still carrying the guilt, but Cordelia… Cordelia was right here, warm and real and pushing every button he had.

Then Lucien clapped his hands. “The bed, my loves! Post-passion repose—raw emotion!”

Angel sat on the edge, pressing back onto the mattress with his hands, legs spread. Cordelia stepped between them without hesitation, arms sliding around his shoulders, fingers threading gently into his hair. He wrapped his hands at her waist and lower back, pulling her close until there was nothing between them but lace and bare skin and the steady thrum of want.

He leaned forward and rested his forehead—then his cheek—against the soft curve of her bosom. Her heartbeat was right there, steady and strong beneath the lace. He closed his eyes and breathed her in, the scent of her skin and perfume and something uniquely Cordelia. Her fingers stroked through his hair in slow, soothing passes, nails grazing his scalp in a way that sent shivers down his spine.

For one long, frozen moment the camera clicked, and the rest of the world simply vanished.

No guilt. No future. Just the warmth of her skin against his face, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, the quiet, terrifying realization that this—them—had been building since the day she walked into his office and refused to leave. Angel’s grip tightened on her hips, thumb brushing the edge of the lace shorts. Cordelia’s breath caught audibly, her fingers tightening in his hair.

Lucien’s voice was reverent. “Magnifique. Hold it right there, my loves—the emotion, the trust—yes.”

When the shutter finally stopped, the photographer gushed praise and offered them both future work. “You two are my new muses! We must do this again.”

Cordelia’s eyes lit up. “That would be a great way to make a few bucks when someone keeps insisting on giving our clients freebies.”

Angel shot her a look that clearly said never again.

Cordelia only smiled sweetly at Lucien. “Call my agent.” Then she caught Angel’s hand and guided him toward the dressing rooms.

He pulled her into the first empty one and shut the door behind them.

The lecture started before the latch even clicked. “This kind of modeling, Cordelia—people take advantage. You can’t just—”

She rolled her eyes, stepping closer. “It’s art, Angel. And you looked pretty damn good doing it. That photographer practically swooned when you took your shirt off.”

They were in the middle of another light, snarky argument—voices low, bodies inches apart—when the tension that had been simmering all afternoon finally snapped like a live wire.

Angel crowded her against the wall, one hand cupping her jaw, the other sliding to her hip. Their mouths met—slow at first, almost careful, a hesitant press of lips that quickly deepened into something hungry. He tasted the faint gloss on her lips, felt the soft gasp she gave when his thumb brushed the bare skin just above the lace of her frilled panties. Cordelia’s fingers threaded back into his hair, nails grazing his scalp as she pulled him closer. 

The kiss grew hotter, wetter; tongues teased and retreated, bodies pressed flush together in the tiny space. His palm skimmed down her side, tracing the edge of the lace, feeling the heat of her skin through the delicate fabric, and she arched into him with a soft, needy sound that nearly undid him.

They broke for air only to dive back in. Angel’s mouth moved along her jaw to the sensitive spot beneath her ear, teeth grazing lightly; Cordelia’s hands roamed over his bare chest and shoulders, mapping every inch of skin she’d been touching for the camera and wanting so much more. He groaned quietly when her nails dragged down his back, the sensation shooting straight through him. She whispered his name against his lips like a secret, her body molding to his, hips pressing forward in a way that made his grip on her tighten almost involuntarily.

When he finally pulled back, breathing hard because it felt right, forehead resting against hers, Cordelia yanked him right back down for another round—hotter, greedier, her hands sliding lower to grip the waistband of his black trousers, fingers dipping just beneath the belt. “Okay, yeah,” she muttered almost to herself between kisses, reminding herself why she had crushed so hard on him to begin with, and why a certain someone was obsessed. “I get it now. That was… unexpected.”

Angel was still touching her, still holding her in his arms, thumbs stroking the lace at her hips, palms warm against her skin. “For me, too.” He looked like he was about to apologize, the guilt already creeping back into his eyes.

Cordelia cut him off before he could speak, pressing a finger to his lips. Those totally hot, crazy crave-able kisses came down to putting two hotties in a sexy situation. That’s all. When it came to Angel, she knew better than most where a few kisses could lead. Something neither of them was ready face. “What happens in Vegas…?”

He swallowed and nodded once. “We should get back to the office. A client due to come in right after sunset.”

She sighed shakily, realizing she secretly wished he would have made it harder to step out of her arms. Nodded silently, Cordelia reached for her clothes. But not before she pressed one last soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Thanks for helping out today.”

The trunk lid slammed a little harder than necessary when Angel climbed back inside for the return trip. Sundown wasn’t that far away, but it was still too bright to risk riding in the car even with the top up. “See you in a few!” she had quipped before shutting him in. The ride back was oddly quiet this time and song free.

Doyle was already at the office when they arrived, looking far too pleased with himself.  “Mum’s birthday party was a huge hit. The Brachen clan really knows how to throw a—” He stopped, eyes narrowing. “You two are putting off a weird vibe. What’d I miss?”

Cordelia and Angel exchanged a quick, awkward glance before heading for their respective desks. Neither said a word about the photoshoot. “Not a thing,” Angel told him stopping at his office threshold. “Client should be arriving in thirty.”

“What’s this—take-out?” Doyle spotted the paper bag Cordelia had just plunked down on her desk and brightened. “Excellent, I’m still starving—” Brachen clan birthday rituals didn’t involve food. He reached in only to pull out a handful of colorful lacy lingerie. His jaw dropped.

Angel flashed Cordelia a look.

“Monsieur Lucien let me keep some samples,” she said sweetly, eyes locked on Angel’s. “I’m still wearing the white one.”

Angel stared back at her and gulped slowly.

Doyle looked between them, the lingerie still dangling from his fingers, and wisely decided not to ask any more questions.

THE END.