Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Making out on Angel’s couch after patrol is starting to become a thing they do more often than not. Buffy can’t help herself; she likes the way his mouth starts off room temperature and then gradually warms up as they kiss, and she likes how big his hands feel on her waist or her shoulders or cupping her face. She likes that he lets her brush her fingers lightly over his siring scar, and she likes that he looks at her like she hung the moon, his eyes so big and dark that they’re almost black.

Plus, Buffy doesn’t think she would ever tell Angel this, but sometimes after a particularly eventful patrol, she feels like she needs it. Like there’s this electric tingle running in her blood, and if she doesn’t find an outlet for it she won’t be able to think about anything else. Sometimes she can’t even wait until they get back to his apartment before she’s tugging him in for a kiss.

Lately, though, the kissing doesn’t even always help. It just makes the feeling intensify. Makes her restless and twitchy.

Now, she’s sitting side-saddle in his lap on the sofa in his apartment, her arms around his shoulders as they make out, and she’s feeling that restlessness again. A squirmy excitement buzzes beneath her skin and between her legs as his tongue slides against hers. She knows what the feeling is, of course. She just doesn’t know exactly what to do about it.

Well, that’s not exactly true. Buffy knows what she wants, at least in an abstract sense. She’s never done more than kissing, though. Still, she feels like the current that runs through her will never calm until she does something.

She pulls her mouth away from his to say, “Um, Angel?”

“Yeah?” His eyes are so bright in the dim lighting of his basement apartment. One of his hands is resting just above her knee, the other on her lower back, and she licks her lips.

“Um… Do you…” She looks down to where one of her own hands is resting near his collarbone, and she plays with the collar of his shirt so she doesn’t have to meet his eyes. “Do you wanna… touch me?”

“Touch you?” he echoes, like he’s not sure he heard her right.

“Yeah. Um, not that you’re not, y’know, currently touching me,” she says, glancing at his hand on her leg. “But, um—somewhere else, is what I meant.”

He’s quiet for a second, and then when he speaks, his voice is low in a way that makes her shiver: “Where do you want me to touch you?”

“Um—you could try—under my shirt?” Buffy decides.

The hand on her back tucks itself beneath the hem of her top and then settles once more against her spine, under the clothes. The new skin contact is nice, but—

“That’s… not exactly what I meant,” she mutters, trying for a smile that doesn’t give away how self-conscious she feels.

“No, I—I know. But… Buffy, are you sure?”

She nods, gripping his shoulders. “Yeah.”

She meets his eyes, and he holds her stare for a second before saying, “Okay.”

She leans in and connects their mouths again as he takes his hand off her leg and lets it crawl beneath the hem of her shirt. He runs his fingers up her belly and places the hand on her ribs just beneath the curve of one breast, brushing against the fabric of her bra. She keeps kissing him even as she arches into his touch, and he gets the hint and slides his hand the rest of the way up to cup her breast. Buffy makes a little mm sound as he holds it gently, squeezing, and a thrill of heat runs through her when he presses his thumb against her nipple. The nipple feels like it’s drawing itself tighter under his touch, and he keeps running his thumb back and forth across it, back and forth, and she has to stop kissing him for a second to exhale a shuddering sigh against his mouth.

When she opens her eyes she sees him staring at the shape of his hand on her breast beneath the fabric of her shirt, and the look on his face seems like a hesitant sort of longing.

“I can take it off,” she says, leaning into his hand, and he looks back up at her face.

“Only if you want to.”

She answers that by grabbing the top from its hem and pulling it off over her head, then tossing it over the arm of the couch. His eyes fall to her chest, and to his own hand where it sits on her breast. Her bra is strawberry-pink with a little bit of lace along its edge and a tiny silk bow at the center.

“Not very practical for patrol,” he observes, and she blushes.

“Well, I—”

“That wasn’t a criticism,” he says quickly. “It’s cute.”

“Oh. Um. Thanks.” She wriggles in his lap, pushing her chest into his hand, and wonders if this is all painfully slow for him. He’s hundreds of years old; he’s probably done a lot of stuff with a lot of girls, and she feels a little bad that she’s made him wait so long for—for stuff. As a compromise, she says, “You can, um—go under that, too, if you want. Or—pull it away. So you can see.”

He runs one finger lightly over the top of her breast, above the lace edge of the bra. It’s ticklish, and goosebumps break out over her skin there.

“I don’t want to do anything you’re not ready for,” he tells her earnestly, and she melts a little.

“I know,” Buffy assures him. “I, um. I want you to—to touch.” It’s hard to admit it. Isn’t she supposed to play coy, or something? “I… um…” She’s not sure how to elaborate on wanting him to touch her without giving too much away, how to explain herself without confessing to the way she sometimes feels like there’s this little fire somewhere low in her belly that he has a tendency to feed without realizing it. Thinking about it makes her even more aware of it, too, and she feels an ache between her legs that has her pressing her thighs together, and of course he catches the movement, eyes flicking down. He looks back up at her with this understanding on his face, and her cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I just—you can.” She averts her eyes and internally pleads for him not to ask follow-up questions.

By some miracle, he gets the message. “Okay,” he says, and tugs her bra down her body, brushing the straps off her shoulders and letting the garment get caught around her abdomen, exposing her breasts. She’s kind of glad that he didn’t take the bra all the way off of her; for some reason, the idea of being completely topless is scarier, even though it wouldn’t have made a difference in what he can now see. He drinks in the sight of her naked breasts, and then presses a delicate kiss to her throat. He murmurs, “You’re beautiful,” against her skin, and she feels warm all over.

His lips against her neck make her envision him in vamp-face for a second, the long sharp teeth and glowing eyes. She imagines him scraping along her pulse-point with his fangs, and it’s a bit frightening how quickly the warmth between her legs turns into a throbbing heat. She quickly shoves the image out of her mind, a little scared by the idea that she might think his fangs are, like, sexy or something. They so should not be.

“Buffy,” he says, and nudges her side. She realizes that he’s trying to get her to move, directing her to straddle his lap, so she sits over his thighs, and he puts his hands on her hips. She puts her own hands on his shoulders, the bra still stuck halfway down her belly, and he smiles up at her.

Smiling in return, she pulls her shoulders back subtly, trying to push her breasts out without being too obvious. It gets his attention. He slides his hands up her hips to cup both breasts, kneading them. It’s nice and all, but she kind of wishes he would go back to playing with her n—oh. 

She considers the possibility of him being a mind-reader of some kind as he trails his fingers across her chest and pinches both nipples at once, not hard. The flash of pleasure is sudden and startling, and she does this stupid embarrassing thing where her hips sort of—move. Involuntarily.

She lets out a little whimper and clings hard to the fabric of his shirt.

“Sorry,” she says, averting her eyes again. “I didn’t mean to—to do that.”

“That’s okay,” he says, and for a guy who doesn’t breathe, he sounds kind of breathless. “Don’t apologize. It’s fine. Better than fine, really.” He sits up straighter, and then glances down at her thighs spread over his for a fraction of a second. “Do you want to…” His mouth is half-open, and then he closes it, looking abashed. “No, nevermind. Sorry.”

She presses at his shoulders. “No, what? What—um, what were you going to say?”

He glances away, sheepish, and then back up at her. “I was just going to see if you wanted to… scoot forward a little? Just if you want.”

Scoot forward? She looks down and realizes that he means—well, she’s sitting pretty far back in his lap. She could sit so they’re pressed more closely together.

She swallows. “Um. Yeah. I can do that.”

Angel shifts to make room for her on the couch, and she walks herself forward until she’s really in his lap, his belt buckle digging into the space just beneath her bellybutton. She leans in to resume their kiss.

He keeps playing with her nipples while they kiss, pinching them gently and running his fingers over them. They’ve gotten hard, standing out from the rest of her skin.

Angel separates from her mouth and licks his way down her neck, and then across her collarbone, and then even lower. He feathers kisses over the tops of her breasts, and she reaches up to wind her fingers through his short spiky hair. When he presses his lips to one of her nipples, her grip tightens.

“This okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she gasps, pushing her breast into his mouth.

He passes his tongue over her nipple and her hips buck again, but this time she’s flush against him, and it feels good to move like that. She presses herself down against him on purpose this time, slower, and delicious heat climbs up through her just from the satisfaction of having his body underneath her. He sucks her nipple into his mouth and she sort of moans, accidentally, and she’s grinding down into Angel’s lap, and—oh.

Is that his—?

Yeah, she thinks it is. Probably. If she had to guess.

She slides over just a fraction, positioning the—the bulge in his pants right between her legs. Even through all their layers of clothing, she can feel the press of it against her, and it’s so good that there’s a staticky rushing sound in her ears. She shudders as she pushes her body against his and digs her nails into his scalp, and he tugs on her hips and presses on her back to help her move, and keeps sucking on her nipple.

Buffy becomes very suddenly aware that she’s absolutely dripping wet, panties clinging to her skin. God, what if it totally soaked through her pants, too? That would be humiliating, and they’re a pretty thin fabric. How worried about that should she be?

Angel gently scrapes over her nipple with his teeth and then soothes it with his tongue, and all thoughts other than that feels amazing fly right out of her head.

Angel lets go of her nipple with a pop and then kisses his way across her chest to the other one, licking softly around it and then flicking the tip of it. His tongue is all smooth and wet and not-quite-human-warm but still warm, and the pleasure of it slithers down her body to settle between her legs as she trembles with it.

She keeps pressing herself down against the hard ridge tenting the front of his pants, chasing the way the friction makes her feel. She’s breathing so heavily, panting with her head thrown back, and these little wordless sounds keep slipping out of her mouth along with her breath, and she can’t stop them but it’s okay because she thinks he likes it anyway, from the way his grip on her hips tightens minutely each time it happens.

“Buffy,” he says against her chest, “can I show you something?”

She can barely understand what he’s saying, she’s so caught up in the fizzy feeling that’s trickling through her. He’s sat up straight again, though, taking his mouth away from her breasts, and that helps her pull her focus to the meaning of his words as her hands drop back to his shoulders.

“Uh-huh,” she says tremulously, still rocking in a downward motion.

He lifts her by the hips just a tiny bit until there’s a bit of space between them, and suddenly her mouth goes dry with nerves. Did she misread? Is he upset at her?

But then he says, “Try angling your body like this instead,” and tilts her hips back. He spreads his legs slightly wider, and then resettles her so that the front of her crotch, instead of the underneath bit, is pressed against Angel’s—er, parts.

…Erection, she thinks firmly. She should be able to say it to herself, at least in her own mind.

“Now try,” he tells her, and uses his hands on her hips to guide her next thrust against him.

She gasps as this change in the angle sends a wave of pleasure through her so concentrated and intense that her voice gets stuck in her throat.

“Oh,” she finally manages, and Angel smiles at her.

“Feels good?”

“Uh-huh,” Buffy says, and does it again, slower, harder. The feeling of it spreads upward from her groin, and her knees shake as she props herself up on them to do it again in a longer motion.

One of Angel’s hands moves to her lower back to encourage her, stroking her skin softly. His eyes are half-lidded and his lips parted as he watches her. She tips herself forward and presses her face into his neck, muffling the noises she keeps making. His hand moves to the back of her neck, tangling in the hair at the base of her skull, tugging lightly in a way that makes her tingle. She keeps rubbing herself against his erection, and the pleasure is climbing towards something, winding her body tighter and higher as pressure builds inside her like a summer storm. She clings to him like she’ll blow away if she lets go, and the next sound that comes out of her is almost a sob as she teeters on the brink of something intoxicating.

Angel pulls gently on her hair until she lifts her face from the crook of his shoulder, tilting her head to the side and lowering his mouth to her jaw. He laps at her skin, trailing up to her ear, and she shudders full-bodied. He scrapes with his teeth and nips at her earlobe, and the little spark of not-quite-pain makes her whimper. She’s too caught up to let the embarrassment of the sounds she’s making take hold, her whole body trembling with all the sensation.

“That’s it, Buffy,” Angel tells her, his voice rough and rasping. “God…”

One of his hands finds her breasts again, playing with a nipple as she ruts against his lap, and that pressure inside her finally breaks. She can’t even see anything through the white-hot pleasure of it, blood rushing in her ears, every muscle in her body tensing in response to the way that feeling pulses outward from between her legs, warm and wet and electric. When the blinding intensity of it fades, it leaves behind a quiet bliss, and she sags against him, relaxed and happy and breathing hard.

Angel’s hands are stroking up and down her back and through her hair. He asks, “Good?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, a lazy smile curling her lips. Shy again, she tucks her face back into his neck. “Really good.” 

Buffy doesn’t tell him she’s never had an orgasm before this; she doesn’t want to seem like inexperienced-girl. Still, it’s possible he knows. He did kind of have to show her how to do it. (But that was totally an orgasm, and she absolutely gets the hype.)

Angel shifts underneath her, and she feels his erection bump against her thigh.

“Oh,” she says, lifting her head from his shoulder and sitting upright. “You’re still…” She glances down pointedly, and then looks away, feeling her cheeks pinken.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. That’s fine. Doesn’t matter.” His eyes are still hazy as he looks at her, pupils huge.

“Do you… want me to…” Buffy trails off, gesturing at him vaguely.

“Oh—um, no, that’s okay. You don’t have to—do anything.”

She feels sort of… relieved? It just seems so intimidating, and she wouldn’t really know how to do it. She’s already starting to feel a bit embarrassed by the way she was just behaving; she doesn’t think she could look him in the eye if he asked her to touch his penis. And then she feels guilty for being selfish, so she says, “I can, if you want me to,” even though the idea is making her belly do unpleasant somersaults.

“No, no,” he says quickly, and nudges her further back in his lap so there’s a respectable distance between her and his erection. “Really, Buffy, that’s okay.” 

Angel gives her a reassuring smile and she nods, heart rate calming.

“Okay.” She hopes he can’t hear the relief in her voice.

Angel leans forward, his hands on her thighs, and says, “This was nice, though.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, and closes the distance between their mouths.

He kisses her so slowly, so softly, like he’s trying not to scare her. His hands are on her thighs, and he shivers slightly.

“God, I loved seeing you come,” he says, and she blushes hot and bright.

“I didn’t hate it either,” she replies with a nervous giggle.

“You’re so warm.” He squeezes faintly at Buffy’s thighs like he’s trying to draw the heat of her through the material of her clothes. His forehead is pressed to hers, lips moving so close to her own that she can feel the stirring of the air. “And you smell so good.”

“It’s, um—coconut. Body wash.”

“No,” Angel says, and rubs more pointedly at her pants, higher on her thighs, not quite where they meet but close. “I didn’t mean your body wash.”

“Oh.” Her hair, maybe? Or can he smell her skin beneath the soap with his vampire senses? Or—

…Oh.

He’s staring hungrily down at her lap, and she figures out what he means. That’s… a little weird and sort of humiliating. But—he said it smelled good, at least?

“Oh,” she repeats lamely.

“Sorry, I—I shouldn’t have said that.”

“N-No, it’s fine. I mean, it’s a little creepy, but, hey, vampire.”

“I’m not trying to be,” he says. “Um, creepy, I mean.”

“No, I know, I—” God, she’s messing this all up. She pulls her bra back up and straightens it, and then gets off his lap and stands in front of him on unsteady legs. “I should probably get going. It’s, um, kind of late.”

He stands, too. “I could… walk you home?”

She looks down. There’s still a very visible tent in the front of his pants.

“Um,” she says. “No, that’s okay. I’ll be fine.” She snags her top and pulls it on.

“Are you sure?”

She gathers up her bag and heads for where her shoes are tossed by the door.

“I’m sure,” she says. It’s not that she doesn’t want him there, exactly. But it would probably be awkward for him to be walking around while he’s all—like that—and she kind of wants some time to herself to take a breather. Plus, her underwear is really sticky and starting to cool down, which is uncomfortable, and if she starts to walk funny she doesn’t want him to see. “Thanks, though.” She smiles at him.

Angel nods, and kisses her goodbye.

The evening air is a pleasant enough temperature, street lights humming audibly in the mist. As she walks through the darkened streets back to Revello Drive, Buffy wonders what Angel’s doing. Is he just going to wait for the erection to go away? Or…

She flushes, tries to picture what it might look like for him to—take care of it. He would probably only undo his belt and pants enough to take it out. She wonders what it looks like. She has a general idea, of course, but there’s a difference between an illustration in a health textbook and the real thing.

How big are they supposed to be, again? Like, five to six inches, right? That’s the average? She puts her hands up in front of her while she walks, trying to estimate a six-inch space between them so she can get a better visual idea of the size. When she drops her hands back to her sides, she glances around furtively, making sure that there’s nobody out and about who saw her measuring. The streets are empty.

She tries to imagine his hand wrapped around himself, but the picture in her head is starting to get watery and unfocused. She just doesn’t really know enough about what it might look like, and whatever small amount of knowledge she does have is purely theoretical.

She puts the thoughts aside as she arrives in her driveway.

Her mom’s car is gone; she’s probably at a gallery thing. Buffy realizes how lucky that is when she gets inside and enters her upstairs bathroom: her hair is a mess, and her mouth is all kiss-reddened. She’s glad that nobody’s seen her since she left Angel’s.

She gets undressed and hops in the shower, and the warm water running over her is both soothing and arousing. She feels little prickles across her skin, remembering how it felt to have her body pressed to his.

Curious, she puts her hand between her legs, feels the swollen flesh. She’s sensitive there, and she pulls her hand away, wincing. She’s not ready to be touched again right now.

Still, Buffy feels like something’s woken up in her. Nervous butterflies swarm in her belly, but it’s not a bad feeling. She wants to do that with Angel again. And she wants to know how he responds when he feels that good. Wants to hear the sounds he makes, see the look on his face. She wants to know what his penis looks like, and she kind of feels silly for how skittish she got earlier, because suddenly she wants to know what it feels like in her hand.

Well. Maybe next time.

Chapter Text

It’s been six days since they did That Thing on Angel’s couch, and there haven’t been any repeats yet. Buffy’s starting to feel antsy, wondering if maybe he didn’t like it as much as he seemed to. He’s not acting any differently, though; he’s just as kind to her as he’s always been. But the more time passes, the more she’s craving the physical stuff, and he doesn’t seem to be feeling the same way.

Right now, they’re walking through the cemetery together holding hands, having dispatched a few stray vampires already. Once again she marvels at just how much bigger his hands are than hers; one of his encircles one of hers completely. His fingers are broad and long, and she wants to know how they’d feel on other parts of her body, too.

Okay, after this patrol, she’ll definitely need a cold shower. It’s only been six days. How desperate can she be?

She’s been taking a lot of cold showers recently, trying to quell the sparks of heat instead of fanning them into a flame. She’s never been the type to touch herself before, and even though the temptation is there now, she’s nervous to start. She’s not sure why. She knows it’s a totally natural thing to do, and everyone does it, and blah-blah-blah. But after sixteen years of being fine without it, just doing it all of a sudden is a big leap, and she can’t bring herself to make the jump.

Buffy’s pulled out of her thoughts by the stirring of grave dirt twenty yards ahead. She lets go of Angel’s hand and twirls her stake.

“I got it,” she says, and dives after the newly-risen vampire.

Angel stands back and lets her make short work of it; she plunges the stake into its chest the second it’s far enough out of the ground to do so. Before the dust has even settled, she’s spinning back to face him with a grin, and his eyes jump up to hers from where they were trained lower.

His pale face is inscrutable, but he doesn’t need to blush for her to know that he was looking at her butt. She blushes, though, tucking her stake away and pressing her lips together to fight a goofy smile at having caught him. She’s just wearing athletic-wear, not really meant to be sexy, but she knows that the thin stretchy material of the workout pants does look good on her.

So, he does still want her, then. He’s just trying to be a gentleman about it.

She skips over to him, planting her hands on his shoulders and going up onto her tip-toes to kiss him. He holds her close as he kisses back.

“Can we go to your apartment again?” Buffy blurts out, and manages to wrestle back her self-consciousness about it.

Angel’s eyebrows raise just a fraction, and then he says, “Sure, if you want to,” the corners of his mouth curving up.

The walk isn’t a long one, objectively speaking, but Buffy is so energetic that she’s nearly shaking with excited butterflies, and it feels like it takes forever to get there. When they do, she wastes no time kicking off her shoes and dragging Angel over to the couch. She urges him down onto it and then sits on his lap again, straddling him. His hands land on her hips and then she’s kissing him, fervent and beaming into it.

She opens her mouth straightaway, seeking out his tongue with her own and clutching his shoulders. It’s so nice, the way their mouths slide together, how slippery his tongue feels. She maps the roof of his mouth, running her tongue along his teeth and nipping at his lower lip.

“Can we do that again?” she asks into his mouth between kisses. “What we did last time?”

“Anything you want,” he says, already pulling her closer by the hips.

Buffy climbs further forward, but he doesn’t have an erection yet this time, so there’s not really much for her to rub herself against. She tries to think of what she did last time that made him hard, retracing her steps. Taking her top off was probably part of it, so she does that. The bra she’s wearing this time isn’t as cute, though, just a simple sports bra that leaves a lot to the imagination, so… She pulls that off, too, and now she’s bare-chested in Angel’s lap.

“Hey,” he says, “there’s no rush,” and brushes his fingers teasingly against her belly.

Buffy grabs one of his hands and guides it up to her breasts, and he chuckles.

Angel doesn’t comment on how much more forward she is tonight, instead cupping both her breasts, running his fingertips along the undersides. The light touch is ticklish, and the nearness of his fingers to her nipples is making her twitchy and needy. When he finally gives them a careful pinch, she hums happily and grinds down against him.

“I like it when you do that,” she tells him, and pushes her chest into his hands.

“I noticed,” he replies with a smile, and then ducks his head to replace one of his hands with his mouth.

When Angel wraps his lips around Buffy’s nipple and sucks, she moans, eyes drifting shut. The suction—the warm, wet pressure of his mouth—has her hands curling into the fabric of his shirt. He bites gently and she lets out a little yip, then says, “Oh, do that again,” and he does, digging in with his teeth just enough to send tiny bolts of lightning through her and then laving the same spots with his tongue.

One of his hands is on her breast, but the one on her hip migrates back a little, resting just above the curve of her ass.

“Buffy,” he says, “can I—”

“Yeah,” she interrupts, and reaches behind her to grab him by the wrist. “You can.” She directs his hand down and then lets it go to grab his shoulders again.

Angel’s other hand abandons her breast, leaving his mouth to it while he palms her ass with both hands. It feels nice to have him holding her like that, but it’s not electrifying like some of the other stuff he’s done has been. She likes the intimacy, though, and when he squeezes her butt through her pants, she likes the appreciative groan he lets out against her chest. She decides that that is probably the best part of him grabbing her ass, then: that he likes it so much.

Angel’s mouth is soft as silk around her breast, his tongue firm as he drags it across her nipple, but he’s stopped biting, and she liked the pinpricks of pain. She winds her fingers into his hair and presses herself into his mouth as a hint, but he doesn’t seem to get it, keeping his jaw slack and his lips and tongue engaged more than his teeth.

“Angel,” Buffy says, and he hums an acknowledgement. “Can you—what you were doing earlier, with your teeth—”

He hums again and nips at her, and she rocks her hips experimentally against him, and, oh—there it is. He’s at least partially hard now, and her heart does a little jump of anticipation in her chest.

She sets up a rhythm quickly, the front of her groin pressed against his erection, a stuttering back-and-forth. Last time when doing this gave her an orgasm, it had been mostly an accident; she’d been chasing it without realizing that was her goal. Now, though, she knows exactly what she’s doing, and she’s focused on it, grinding hard and eager on him.

She didn’t really think through the exercise pants, though. They’re even flimsier than the pants she was wearing last time; she’s definitely going to have a wet spot, and really soon. Even now, she feels wetness pooling warm in her underwear.

Angel has moved away from her nipples to drag his teeth along the underside of her breasts. She’s sensitive there too, and she arches her back up to give him better access. He bites right beneath one breast, high on Buffy’s rib cage, and she moans, hips jerking.

His hands are still kneading her butt, but suddenly she remembers what she was thinking about while they walked through the cemetery, and she wants at least one of those hands elsewhere. So, she grabs one.

“Angel,” she pants. “I want—Can you touch me? Here?” She directs his hand around to the front of their bodies, presses his knuckles against the crotch of her pants.

He’s nodding, and as soon as she lets go of his hand he’s pressing it against her more forcefully, and she groans. With his grasp on her butt he pushes her into his other hand, which he then turns so he can cup her between her legs, and oh, God, that’s—

His fingertips are in the space underneath her, rubbing where she’s wettest, and his thumb is closer to that good spot at the front that she’s been rutting against him, and his palm is flat against the middle bit of her, and it’s almost overwhelming. It’s so much more satisfying for him to be touching all of her like this, the pressure of it through her clothes, which are getting more and more damp as she soaks through them.

“So wet,” he marvels, mumbling the words against her breasts like he doesn’t really mean for her to hear them.

“Yeah,” she says shakily.

The way he rubs the pads of his fingers over her entrance is as satisfying as scratching an itch, the pleasure of it making her vision go fuzzy white at the edges, and his thumb—God, his thumb. He starts by drawing big light circles around her, and the way it’s almost what she needs makes her whine. He huffs out a delighted laugh at the sound, and then tightens the circles, drawing them closer and harder and exactly right. When he focuses in on those hard tight circles, her mouth falls open and she can’t stop the high, breathless sounds that start to come out of her.

Buffy’s whole body trembles as Angel’s thumb keeps pulling those noises from her, and she’d be embarrassed but she’s too busy nearly having an orgasm. Almost—Almost—There it is.

She feels the way something he’s got pinned under his thumb throbs as she comes, that spot that she likes, and that’s the point from which the pleasure radiates out, a warm wet rush of tingles that passes through her whole body and then swoops around to do it again. She’s vaguely aware of a strangled moan that she thinks she must be the one making, but everything’s gone so bright and sparkling that she can’t really tell. She does know that all her muscles are seizing up, though—she can feel her toes curling and her calves and thighs flexing and her hands turning into fists in Angel’s shirt.

She comes hard, and longer than last time, too, and when it’s done she collapses against him, panting.

His thumb brushes lightly over her and Buffy twitches, not sure if she’s trying to jump towards the stimulation or away from it.

“Oh, my God,” she breathes, and drops her sweaty forehead to his shoulder.

There’s a rustle as he wipes his sticky hand against his pants.

“You look so good when you do that,” he tells her.

For a couple of minutes, they don’t do anything. They just sit like that, with her melting all over him. Then, finally, she drags herself into an upright sitting position, a bit further towards his knees.

“Your turn,” she says, and plants her hands on his upper thighs.

“Oh. Um… That’s alright, Buffy.”

“No. I—” She hopes she’s not turning red. “I want to see.”

“Oh.” Angel’s expression is all gooey and cute, like he’s torn between chivalry and giving her what she wants. Finally, his hands go to his belt buckle.

She licks her lips and watches as he undoes it, and then he’s popping the button on his pants and unzipping the fly. She can see the gray of his underwear in the opening, and he asks, “You sure?”

She nods.

Angel tucks one hand under the waistband of his underwear and pulls his erection out of it. He takes his balls out too, which, okay, she wasn’t really expecting that but she also isn’t sure why not.

His penis is a bit bigger than she was expecting, but not by very much. There are several thick veins visible running up the shaft, and it’s curved, standing up against his belly. The tip of it is mostly hidden behind a fold of skin, but the shiny round head of it peeks out just slightly.

“You, um, haven’t seen one before,” Angel guesses, and Buffy realizes she’s staring.

“Sorry. I mean, uh, no. I haven’t. This is my first—uh—one.”

He nods awkwardly, and then neither of them move.

Angel starts: “...Did you want… I mean… How did you want to do this?”

“I—um. Well.” She worries her lower lip with her teeth. “Can I… touch it?”

“Sure. That’s—That’s fine.”

Buffy reaches forward and wraps her hand around the middle of it. No part of Angel is naturally very warm, but this is warmer than the majority of him. It feels nice in her hand, and the skin shifts as she adjusts her finger placement.

She gives it an experimental tug, from midway to the base and then back. He doesn’t react much, but he can’t seem to decide whether he wants to look at her hand on him or at her face, gaze flicking back and forth between the two.

“Sorry,” she says, “I don’t think I know what I’m doing.”

“You’re fine,” he replies, and then takes her hand in his to maneuver it closer to the tip. “Start from here and go down then back up like you did. But grip it a little harder.”

With her hand at the head, she does as instructed and tightens her grip a bit, holding it more firmly, and then she pumps down and back up.

“That’s—That’s good,” he says. “You can still hold it tighter, though.”

If she holds it much tighter, she thinks some of the foreskin might get pulled back when she strokes it.

“Won’t it hurt?” she wonders.

Angel gives her a little half-smile and says, “No.”

She tightens her grip again, and he tips his head back against the couch. When Buffy pulls her hand down, the foreskin does shift and expose more of the dusky pink tip, but his soft groan is of pleasure, not pain.

“Okay. Good,” he says, panting slightly. “Now—you see how it’s wet at the tip? Try to get some of that on your hand.”

She rubs her palm over where clear fluid is leaking from the slit, getting her hand slippery, and he flexes his hips into the touch. This time, she pulls the foreskin down more deliberately as she strokes, her way eased by the wetness of her hand, and he exhales a shuddering breath.

She finds herself breathing heavily too, staring at him with her lips parted. It’s intoxicating, the way he reacts to her touch. She likes that she can make him feel good like this. She wants to give him an orgasm, too.

He seemed to like it when she touched the head, so she moves her hand back up and draws a light circle around it with her thumb. His penis twitches, which is sort of wiggy, but also sort of weirdly cute. She runs her fingers around the edge of the head too, rubbing gently, and Angel moans quietly.

She continues stroking him, his erection thick and hard in her hand, watching the way the foreskin moves and the slit at the tip dribbles that clear fluid. She rubs the head as much as she can on each stroke, which he seems to appreciate. He’s leaning back against the couch, fingers curling into the seat. His breathing gets more labored as she keeps going, and then he requests, “Faster?”

She speeds the motion of her hand, and his hips tilt upward into it.

“You can, um—with your other hand—” he says, and lets go of the couch cushion to grab his balls. “Like this. Just, uh, squeeze.”

With her left hand, she tentatively holds him the way he held himself, and the skin there is a lot softer than she was expecting. She does as he instructed and squeezes gently.

“Is this—um, good?”

He nods, eyes shut tight. “A little harder than that is—is good, too.”

She increases her grip strength, rolling them in her palm, and then continues that as she returns her focus to what her other hand is doing. She strokes him fast and tight, sliding her hand up and over the tip, gathering liquid on her fingers with each motion. She presses at the prominent veins on his shaft too, and rubs at the parts of him that seem most sensitive: the slit, the edge of the head, the spot where the foreskin connects to the underside in a little heart-shaped curve of flesh.

“Buffy,” he says, and there’s a note of desperation in his strangled voice. He touches her wrist, nudging it so his penis is tilted further towards himself. 

Two more strokes and then his balls draw themselves against his body and he comes, thick white spurts of it coating her hand and spattering against his shirt as he lets out a whimpery grunt. She keeps pumping, and more of the pearly fluid oozes from the tip of him, leaking down the side and over her fingers. When it finally stops, she takes her hand away and examines the mess on it.

“Um. Do you have tissue?” she asks.

Angel points, eyes still shut, expression relaxed. “By the bed.”

She climbs off him and walks over to the alcove where his bed is, awkwardly holding her come-covered hand in front of her. She finds the tissues and wipes herself off, and then brings the rest of the box over to the couch, offering it to him. 

As he takes a tissue, she watches curiously the way Angel’s penis is softening. It shrinks to a smaller size, maybe one third shorter than when it was hard. Huh. She didn’t know they did that.

He tucks himself back into his pants, doing them back up and buckling his belt. He unbuttons his shirt and wanders away to toss it into a laundry hamper, and then returns to the couch, reaching out for her. When Buffy takes his hand, Angel tugs her down onto the couch with him, and she curls up against him, both of them bare-chested. 

She presses her nose into his pecs and asks, “Was I okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice is warm and cheery. “Yeah, Buffy, that was good.”

He touches her jaw to tilt her head up at him, and he’s smiling at her. He gives her a chaste peck on the lips.

“I’d better get dressed,” she says. “I’m sort of cold.”

He reaches across the couch to grab her bra and top, handing them to her, and says, “We should think about getting you home soon. I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to,” she replies, pulling her clothes on.

He shakes his head. “I’d rather go with you, in case there’s trouble. You smell like a meal right now.”

“I do?”

He runs his fingers over the crotch of her exercise pants, and her legs twitch open wider without her conscious input. The stretchy fabric her pants are made of makes the stain less than visible, but his fingertips still come away slightly sticky.

“Yeah.” He brings his fingers up and touches them to his tongue. “Trust me.” His eyelids droop as he licks his fingers clean, humming happily.

It must be a vampire thing, that he likes the way she tastes. She should probably be totally wigged out by it, right? She definitely shouldn’t be wondering what it might feel like to have his mouth between her legs. That’s not, like, a thing that guys do for girls, it’s a thing girls do for guys, but the pink flicker of his tongue against his skin is making her squirm anyway.

Angel smirks at her like he knows what she’s thinking, but—he couldn’t possibly.

Buffy pulls him in for a kiss, and he thrusts his tongue into her mouth suggestively. She can’t taste what he was tasting, though; just the soft inside of his mouth.

Eventually they separate, and she puts on her shoes while he finds a shirt to wear, and then he walks her home. Her mom’s car is gone again, so he walks her all the way to her front door and kisses her goodnight on the doorstep.

Chapter Text

The next several nights, her mom is home, which makes staying out late difficult to get away with, and Buffy ends up having to concede her smoochies at Angel’s to be home by curfew. The problem with that, though, is that now that she’s had a couple of orgasms, it’s getting harder to go without them.

It’s late, and Buffy is still awake, skin buzzing as she tosses and turns. She keeps thinking of what it felt like to have him underneath her, the sweet thrill that would go through her when she rubbed herself against his erection, or when he sucked on her nipples, or when he touched her through her pants. She wants that again.

Buffy lays on her side, legs pressed together. Clenching the muscles in her thighs makes a few weak sparks light up in her belly, but the excitement is gone as quickly as it came. She tries crossing her legs, and that yields better results, but it’s still not even close to as good as Angel made it.

Maybe she can simulate the feeling by rubbing herself against something? She closes her thighs around a fist and gives that an experimental thrust. Okay. That’s not bad. But if she’s going to be doing that, she might as well take it further.

It’s about time she tried this, right?

She turns onto her back and cups her breasts over her pajama shirt. That doesn’t really do much for her, so she tries scraping over her nipples lightly with her fingernails, still through the shirt, and that’s a lot better. She drags her shirt up to get her hands under it. Buffy pinches her nipples harder than Angel did, rougher on herself than she thinks he’ll likely ever be, and, oh, that’s really nice. She plucks and tugs at them, and they harden into little points that poke up through her top.

Buffy drags her hands down her abdomen, scratching gently at her belly with her fingernails, and it’s ticklish in a titillating way, waking her skin up as a swath of goosebumps follows her fingers. With one hand, she plays with the waistband of her pajama pants, scritching her hip bone. With the other, she palms herself over her clothes, so lightly that she’s really no more than resting her hand on her crotch.

Buffy spreads her legs a little wider as she teases herself, running her fingers lightly up and down. The sensation of it sends tendrils of pleasure curling through her, and she lets her eyes drift shut. She cups herself through her pajama pants, seeking out more pressure. It’s sort of like how Angel made her come the other day, with her fingers pressing at her entrance over her clothes and the heel of her hand up higher. She pushes down hard and sees stars from the contact the heel of her hand makes, feels the heat that radiates from her body.

She slips her hand beneath the waistband of her pajamas and underwear to touch herself without a barrier. She rubs at the place at the top that she knows she likes, and finds that direct stimulation is on the borderline of being too intense unless she’s pretty gentle. The skin there is swollen and warm, and when she dips her hand down, she gets her fingers slick. On a hunch, she slides her wet fingers back up, and—wow. The extra lubrication eases the friction, and drawing a little circle around herself like Angel did makes her mouth fall open in a gasp.

She keeps up the circles, increasing the speed and the pressure, and soon her hips are jumping up of their own accord, pushing her body against her hand. With her free hand, she goes back to tweaking her nipples, and she imagines that it’s Angel doing it. She pictures what they must’ve looked like on his couch the other day, with him touching her between her legs, and then she pictures what he looked like with his pants unzipped and his erection jutting out of them. She imagines her hand wrapped around it, fluid leaking from the tip, and then she pictures the look on his face when he was mid-orgasm, all furrowed brows and open mouth. But it’s remembering the sound he made when he came that has her breathing out shakily and snapping her legs shut around her hand as she comes.

When Buffy takes her sticky hand out of her pajamas, she feels so relaxed that she doesn’t even open her eyes. She drops off to sleep easily.

☾

A day later, her mom tells her she’ll be out late at the gallery again, and Buffy restrains herself enough to simply nod in acknowledgement instead of jumping for joy like she wants to. That night, she’s efficient with patrol, and then she all but drags Angel through the door of his own apartment. As soon as it swings shut, she’s kicking her shoes off, and then leaping up and wrapping her legs around his waist, clinging to his shoulders as she kisses him. He catches her deftly, arms going under her rear to support her.

He carries her through the apartment to the couch, but he doesn’t sit down with her in his lap like she’s expecting. Instead, he lays her on her back, dragging a cushion over to prop against the arm of the couch for her to lean against. He drapes himself over her without breaking their kiss, and Buffy keeps her legs hitched up on his hips.

He’s using one arm to hold himself up so that his full weight isn’t on her, just enough that she’s comfortable. Their kissing is messy, all lips and tongues and sometimes teeth. She nips playfully at his lower lip, giggles into the kiss.

“Mm,” says Angel, a wordless happy sound.

“Mm,” she echoes, and then murmurs, “I’ve been thinking about this for days.”

He licks beneath her jaw and then down to her throat as he says, “Yeah?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tell me,” he requests.

Buffy suddenly gets shy. Why did she even bring it up? It’s way too difficult to say these things out loud! She hides her face in his neck and closes her teeth gently around as much of his skin as she can fit into her mouth.

He shudders at the soft not-quite bite and says, “You don’t have to. It’s okay.” He noses at the tender spot beneath her ear, presses a kiss there. “I thought about it too, for what it’s worth.”

She takes her face out of his neck to look at him. “You did?”

At his affirmative hum, she bites her lip, smiling nervously. It would be hypocritical of her to ask, right? She just refused to answer the same question. But—

“You wanna know what I was thinking about?” His voice is a low rumble.

Still nibbling on her lip, she nods. “Mm-hmm.”

“I was thinking,” he says, dropping a little open-mouthed kiss against her throat, “about how cute you are when you show me exactly what you want.” Another kiss. “And how when I touch you, you get so wet that I can feel it through your clothes.” His voice makes shivery tingles trickle through her body like hot water. “How pretty you look when you come.” She makes an incoherent noise as her hips twitch up towards him, and he gives her another kiss. “How good you smell.” And another. “How good you sound.” Angel falls quiet again as he keeps kissing her neck, sucking at the base of it where she can cover any hickies with a scarf or high-necked blouse.

“Did you—mm.” She breaks off with a pleased little grunt when his hands slide under her shirt and bra in one smooth motion to play with her nipples. But she wants to know, and she wants him to keep talking, so she tries again, blushing fiercely: “Did you touch yourself?”

Angel’s hands come out of her shirt to help her take it off, leaving her in just her bra, which has sunshine-yellow daisies printed on it. His mouth twitches into a half-smile at the sight of it, but then that fades as he registers her question.

“I… try not to do that too often,” he says, averting his eyes. “It feels like an indulgence that I shouldn’t be allowing myself very much of. The… The things that tend to come to mind when I do…” He sits up to put some space between them, perpendicular to her on the couch, one of her legs behind him and the other bent over his lap with a foot on his thigh. He scratches the back of his neck. “But… yeah. I did.” He seems to feel guilty about it.

Buffy props herself up on her elbows and prods at him with one of her sock-feet. “That’s okay. So did I.” She can’t stop herself from turning pink as she says it.

“Well, you’re allowed.”

“And you’re not?”

“I—shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Buffy asks. “It feels good.”

Angel doesn’t say it out loud, but his expression tells her that that’s exactly why he doesn’t do it often.

“I did it this time, though,” he says, like he’s trying to make up for something. And then his voice lowers: “Couldn’t help myself.” He trails his fingers over her thigh.

“Me neither,” she says, laying back down against the cushion. “Couldn’t sleep until I did.”

He holds onto the ankle that’s in his lap, running his thumb over the knobby bone there. “So… you did it in your bed, then?”

She nods. “Um. What about you?”

“The shower.”

She pictures it: him standing under the spray, fully nude, rivulets of water dripping off his body and clinging to his skin. One of his hands wrapped around his erection, the other braced against the wall. She imagines the way his voice might echo off the tile.

“Mm,” Buffy says, and traces mindless patterns over her own abdomen, aware that she probably has a glazed-over look in her eye.

“How’d you do it?” Angel asks her. “Ah—you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s okay…” She squirms a little, trying to get comfortable. “Um… I guess…” She pops the button on her jeans and then pulls down the zipper. “Sort of like this…” After a moment of hesitation, her right hand finds its way into her underwear, wiggling her fingers against herself as Angel watches her, mesmerized. Her face reddens. “Kind of like how you were touching me the other day, but under my clothes,” she says, and then starts to pull her hand back out of her pants as her boldness fades.

Angel leans forward and takes hold of her wrist, stopping her retreat. He directs her hand back down into her jeans before letting go and says, “Keep going.”

“Oh.” His encouragement helps. She moves her fingers down to her entrance and toys at the edges of it. It’s nerve-wracking to do something so private in front of him, but at the same time the intimacy lights her up like a sparkler. She gets wetter and wetter as she slides her fingers along her skin.

Angel leans back against the couch, head turned to the side so he can watch the way the motion of her hand makes the front of her jeans bulge out. One of her legs is still in his lap, and she uses that foot to nudge him high up on his thigh.

“Feeling like a one-woman show over here,” she says.

Angel balks briefly, and then nods. Her hand stills when he gently removes her leg from his and stands to walk over to his bed, opening a drawer in the nightstand and shuffling in it for a second before withdrawing a bottle. He comes back and retakes his place, pulling her shin back across his thighs and setting the bottle down next to him on the couch.

As Angel unbuckles his belt, Buffy leans forward and grabs the bottle to examine it. It’s got a pump-top, and the plastic is clear, letting her see the colorless gel inside. According to the label, it’s water-based and flavorless.

Buffy wonders if maybe he is less successful than he let on at denying himself certain things. Then again, she supposes, what he really said was just that he tries not to indulge too often.

Angel removes his shirt, apparently not looking to repeat last time’s mess, and then accepts the bottle of lubricant from her when she silently hands it back to him. He unbuttons and unzips, then takes his erection out.

Angel pumps a bit of lube into his palm and then sets the bottle aside. He wraps his hand around himself and spreads the liquid, then turns to look at Buffy. She realizes he’s waiting for her, so she starts up the motion of her hand again, sliding her fingers up and down over her entrance without pressing inside. Angel begins to slowly stroke himself at the same time.

Buffy watches the way he does it. His grip on his shaft is tight. He pulls the foreskin down and swipes his thumb across the head, which is slick and shiny with lubricant, and Buffy licks her lips.

She snakes a hand behind her back to unclasp her bra, shrugging out of it and setting it aside as quickly as she can. When she takes her hand out of her underwear to get through the bra strap, she sees Angel’s half-lidded gaze zero in on her wet fingers, and his nostrils flare.

Buffy lays back down on the couch, pinching and pulling at her nipples with her left hand while her right finds its way back down between her legs. She keeps skating around her entrance instead of venturing upwards, wanting to draw out the pleasure of being with Angel rather than race to finish. As she touches herself, her gaze stays on his parted mouth. She remembers when he licked his fingers clean of her.

She imagines what it might be like to have his mouth on her: his tongue, all warm and soft and wet, the perfect amount of pressure right where she likes it, licking circles there. She shudders, eyelids fluttering, feeling naughty.

“Are you looking at my mouth?” he asks, voice gravelly as he gives her a little smirk. “What’re you thinking about?”

She can’t possibly voice all the dirty thoughts she’s having about his tongue, so she bites the inside of her cheek and says, “Nothing,” directing her gaze back down to his hand on his erection. He’s rubbing at the head of it, smearing the thin clear liquid that’s gathered in the slit. Angel hums in acknowledgement, but he doesn’t seem like he entirely believes her.

“Buffy,” he says, eyeing where her hand disappears into her clothes. “Touch your clit for me.”

She manages a drunk-sounding, “Huh?” as she tries to focus.

“Higher up,” he tells her.

“Oh.” She hadn’t realized it has a name.

Buffy drags her touch upwards and makes a loop around her clit, her hips jerking towards her hand. She tips her head back against the arm of the couch, moaning at the way her fingers both soothe and feed the ache she’s feeling. Laying on her back as she is, she’s compelled to draw her knees up to her chest, resting her heels on the backs of her thighs.

“Angel,” she whines, and reaches for him with the hand that’s not down her pants.

He climbs onto his knees and leans over her, propping himself up with one arm while the other hand keeps stroking himself. He leaks onto her belly, clear sticky fluid pooling on her skin, and she hitches her legs back up on his waist.

Buffy reaches up and tugs his face down to hers for an uncoordinated kiss. Their mouths are open and panting against each other, the sound accompanied by that of slick flesh. He licks his way down her neck, nipping gently at it, and her hips buck in response.

She speeds her hand, increases the pressure of her fingertips against her clit. She’s dizzy with the proximity of him: the way her breath gets trapped between them, and she can hear his hand working his erection, and his skin doesn’t really have a particular scent but he still somehow smells clean, and there’s warm and wet dripping onto her belly. She can’t think, but she can feel, and the sensation ramps higher and higher and higher.

Buffy loses track of everything else when she comes, her legs locking around him and her clit pulsing hot under her fingers. She makes a reedy sound and arches up, accidentally putting her arm in the puddle that’s formed on her abdomen. Pleasure blots out her vision for a moment, and when it comes back, Angel’s staring down at her slack-jawed, and then he grits his teeth and comes, painting her belly and chest with white streaks.

He half-collapses on her, but she can tell he’s trying not to squash her too much because he angles himself to fall on his side, up against the back of the couch. They both lay there, breathing hard.

Buffy looks down at the mess they’ve made, withdrawing her hand from her pants. Her fingers and part of her arm by her elbow are shiny and slick, but nowhere near as much as his hand, and his softening penis, and the space from her bellybutton to just under her collarbone. The sight of it makes her start to giggle, almost deliriously. Angel cracks a grin at her too, and then sits upright.

The tissues are over by his bed, and his hands are way too gross to tuck himself back into his pants, so he just gets up and starts to cross the room like that, and the sight of his now-flaccid penis hanging out while he walks around makes Buffy laugh harder. She tries to cover her mouth with her clean hand so he won’t think she’s making fun of him, but by the time he returns with the tissue box, he’s chuckling too.

“Something funny?” he asks lightly, wiping himself down and then putting himself away.

She shakes her head, still stifling laughter as she plucks a tissue from the box. He helps her clean up enough to be presentable.

Angel sits on the couch and she climbs into his lap to kiss him, pressing their bare chests together. She feels bubbly and energetic, like everything’s just exactly the way it’s supposed to be. They’ve got a good amount of time before she’ll need to head home, and she runs her tongue along his lower lip, intending to make the most of it.

Chapter Text

It’s been another few weeks, and Buffy’s been stealing moments alone with Angel anytime she can. They’ve been mostly kissing, since that’s something they can do anywhere, but there have been more than a couple of times that they’ve found themselves at Angel’s place for some heavy petting. He’s given her a lot more over-the-clothes orgasms, and she’s traded him a fair share of hand jobs too. They haven’t repeated the thing where they masturbated in front of each other, but that’s fine by Buffy; touching herself is good when he’s not around, but when they’re together, she’d rather have his hands on her than her own. One little thing that’s changed about their ritual, though, is that they’ve migrated from the couch to the bed, which Buffy prefers for the extra room and the softness of the mattress and pillows.

Angel has just laid her down across it and is rucking up her tank-top, peppering her abdomen with chaste little kisses. She wriggles, trying not to squeak and give away how ticklish she is.

Buffy peels her top off and drops it over the side of the bed, then runs her fingers through Angel’s short dark hair. He makes a rumbly noise that sounds a bit like purring and moves up to kiss her on the mouth. They make out, languid and comfortable in his bed, Buffy wrapping her arms around his shoulders and Angel’s hands on her hips. She folds one leg up, hooking her heel into the curve of his lower back.

His hands wander over her belly, skating along her skin. He palms one of her breasts over her sports bra, finding her nipple through the stretchy material. She pushes her chest further into his hand and he smiles at her, grasping the edge of the bra and pulling it off over her head. With her breasts bare, she tangles her hands in his hair and uses them to direct his mouth down. He laughs against her skin at her pushiness, but takes a nipple into his mouth without complaint.

She moans softly, scritching at the nape of his neck in encouragement as he laps and sucks at her. A now-familiar warmth blooms between her legs. Her nipple hardens under his touch and he bites gently the way he’s learned she likes. He leaves it spit-slick and shiny and licks his way across her chest to the other one.

Angel’s hand finds the crotch of her pants and cups her there, but the pleasure of it is dulled by the thick material. Usually she tries to wear thinner fabrics, but it managed to slip her mind this time, and the pressure of his hand through the heavier material isn’t enough.

Well… The solution is pretty simple. It’s not like she hasn’t thought about it. They could only do the over-the-clothes stuff for so long.

She snakes a hand down and pops the button on her pants, then tugs her zipper down. She grabs him by the wrist and tucks his fingertips into the elastic waistband of her panties: an invitation. He looks up at her to be sure, and she nods.

Angel removes his mouth from her nipple and moves up to lay beside her, sliding his hand down into her underwear. When he makes contact with damp, swollen flesh, he muffles a noise into his pillow. Buffy tilts his face towards hers so she can kiss him.

Her legs try to fall open, but her pants are in the way, and they’re trapping his hand at an awkward angle. She lets out a frustrated grunt and starts shoving the offending article of clothing down. When Angel realizes what she’s doing, he’s quick to give her some space, and she kicks the pants the rest of the way off, leaving her in just her baby-blue panties.

Angel settles back over her and tucks his hand back beneath the waistband, nuzzling his face against her throat. He strokes her delicately with two fingers, getting them slick and sliding them in loops around her clit and her opening. She makes a pleased little sound and bucks up against his hand. He keeps teasing her, dragging his wet fingers along her clit and then leaving, never paying attention to it for long enough that she can get anywhere. He dips his fingers low again and again, rubbing at her entrance to collect more fluid.

“Buffy,” he murmurs against her jaw, nipping it. “Can I go inside?”

She’s glad he’s burying his face in her neck, licking the sweat from her skin instead of looking at her face, because she’s sure she makes an array of interesting expressions when he asks that. She’s never put her fingers inside herself before. It’s not for lack of curiosity, but she’s never really felt the need to do so; just touching herself externally has been enough so far. Then again, she has yet to dislike anything that Angel’s showed her.

“Okay,” she says. “Just, um, be gentle?”

He nods eagerly, sucking a purple mark into the base of her throat. One of his fingers presses at her entrance, and then he’s sliding it slowly into her. Her breath hitches a little, back arching into the sensation. When his finger is all the way inside her and his knuckles brush against her, she lets out a low, breathy moan.

“Good?” he asks her.

Her voice trembles when she replies, “Uh-huh.”

“You’re so warm,” Angel says, and his voice is almost as shaky and awed as Buffy’s is. His erection is digging into her upper thigh, but he doesn’t seem interested in taking it out of his pants.

He pumps his finger in and out of her carefully, and she’s so wet that it’s spilling out around his hand, coating his knuckles and her underwear and the insides of her thighs. Angel has his eyes fixed unblinkingly on where his hand is distorting the shape of her underwear, and whatever glimpses into it he’s managing to catch as the elastic waistband curves around his wrist.

“Um,” she says, clinging to his shoulders. “Can you… add another?”

His mouth, which had been hanging open, clicks shut, and he nods jerkily. Even more slowly than before, he presses a second finger against her entrance and then past it. Two fingers is a little bit more of a stretch, but her body accommodates it just fine after a moment of adjustment, and she exhales a tremulous sigh.

It’s so good, but there’s still one more thing she wants, and that’s to touch his bare skin. With unsteady hands, she fumbles the buttons of his shirt open. He pulls his fingers out of her to take it the rest of the way off and she suddenly feels dismally empty. She taps wordlessly at his belt buckle to indicate that he should take his pants off as well, and then she cups herself over her soaked panties to try and ease the ache of wanting him back inside her.

Angel hesitates briefly but ends up doing as she asked, shucking his layers until he’s just in his boxer briefs. The tent in them is even more visible than it was in his black dress pants, and there’s a little wet spot on the front that makes Buffy lick her lips and grind the heel of her palm against her clit.

Angel cuddles up beside her again, his erection resting against her hip now, and once again returns his hand to her. Buffy melts back against the mattress, succumbing to the desire to close her eyes and just let him touch her. She runs one hand blindly across the smooth expanse of his chest, her other hand resting on the bed. Her head tips back against the pillows and she spreads her legs wide. Two of his fingers glide easily back into her.

Buffy grips the sheet tightly as Angel thrusts his fingers inside her, skin catching and dragging along sensitive flesh. His thumb finds her clit, rubbing along the sides of it and then swiping back and forth across it as she shudders and whines. Her body jerks up into his touch. She opens her eyes to look at his face, the way he’s gazing down at her with such focus. She keeps one arm around his shoulders, and she bends her knees as she draws her legs closer to herself on impulse. She pulls her underwear down her thighs a little so they can both see what he’s doing.

Her body makes a slick noise as his fingers enter her again and again. The familiar pressure is building inside her, and her hips are rolling in time with his thrusts. On every exhale, a nasally sound comes from high in her throat, and she struggles to keep her eyes open. Angel starts to curl his fingers forward, brushing up against a spot inside her that wrenches a moan out of her. On each stroke, he hits the spot again, pressing against it with the pads of his fingers, and his thumb works on her clit, fast and rhythmic.

Her voice breaks on a yelp as she comes hard, her muscles locking and her pussy clenching around his fingers. Her clit throbs, her body pulsing with heat, and she feels something warm and wet spattering her thighs as the pressure releases. She shakes with the force of the orgasm, her head thrown back and eyes shut tight.

He leaves his fingers inside her as she comes down from it, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she gasps for air. She feels wrung-out and exhausted, tension bleeding out of her muscles as she shivers and twitches with aftershocks. She’s covered in a light layer of sweat, and when she looks down her body, she realizes she’s wet with something else, too. Her orgasm has made a mess all over his sheets and their skin, shiny-wet and sticky, and there’s a lot of it. She groans and turns her head to the side to hide her reddening face.

“Buffy,” Angel says. He plants little kisses all over her jaw and neck and chest, wiggling his fingers inside her and then pulling them out.

“S-Sorry about…” She gestures to the puddle beneath her without looking at it or at him, throat and eyes burning with embarrassment as she tugs her panties back up.

“What?” Angel’s voice sounds startled. “No, don’t—don’t be sorry. God...” He noses at her jaw and she finally looks at him. Beaming, he says, “That was really hot.” He draws a little swirl on her thigh with his wet fingers.

She swallows. “It was?”

He nods vigorously, and then leans in to kiss her. The burning humiliation fades as she opens her mouth to his, running her fingers through his hair. It doesn’t take long for him to kiss away the last remnants of her self-consciousness, and then she’s rolling them both over so she can lay on top of him as they make out.

Buffy’s chest presses against Angel’s, and the tent in his boxer briefs is situated directly beneath her drenched underwear. She rubs herself over him and he groans, grabbing her by the hips. When their mouths separate, she sits all the way up, straddling him, planting her hands on his pecs. He looks up at her as she rocks back and forth over him, and the feeling of his dick pressing between her legs through their undergarments makes her feel fizzly and short of breath. She can feel the contours of it bumping against her clit, and it sends a thrill zipping up her spine, but she quickly decides that it’s too much stimulation so soon after an orgasm. She sits back and peels his underwear down, and his erection springs free.

Buffy gets to work right away, gathering a handful of lubricant from the bottle he keeps beside his bed. With both hands slippery, she grabs hold of him and begins to stroke. She can see the way his jaw clenches in response.

Making sure she has a generous coating of the lube on her fingertips, she slides one beneath his foreskin. It’s something that Angel taught her to do on the first night they switched from the couch to the bed. He makes a garbled noise of pleasure as she rubs the sensitive head of his dick from under the foreskin. She swipes across the ridge of it, and then presses her thumb against the slit to coax droplets of pre-come out. With her other hand, she teases at the large vein on the underside of his dick, and then moves down to squeeze his balls. He’s admitted that he actually likes it when she grips him there pretty hard; he’ll take whatever she can dish out. She’s not sure if that’s typical, or if it’s just a vampire thing, or if it’s just an Angel thing, but she does it, careful and firm. Buffy pulls his foreskin back to give the head of his dick more attention as she strokes him, spreading pre-come and lube over his flushed pink skin. 

She guesses he’s pretty worked up from getting to put his fingers inside her, because it doesn’t take long before he’s coming across her hand and his own belly. His sheets are already messy enough that he’ll have to change them before he goes to sleep, so she almost wipes her hands off on them as he recovers, but something stops her.

His come is thick and white and viscous, and she’s struck suddenly with the question of what it tastes like. She knows that he likes the way she tastes; he’s licked his fingers clean enough times for her to figure that one out. Would she like the same? Tentative, she brings her hand up to her mouth and licks a little bit off of it. He watches her the whole time, pupils dilated huge and black.

His come tastes sort of bitter, but not entirely bad. She swallows the little bit she had on her tongue and wipes the rest on his sheets like she planned.

Angel sits up and she crawls forward into his lap again, his softening dick resting warm against her thigh. She’s not sure if he’ll want to kiss her after she just tasted that, but he does, kisses her slow and sweet, humming into her mouth as he searches for her tongue with his.

“I wish you could spend the night,” he murmurs.

“Me, too.” She glances at the wall-clock on the other side of the basement apartment. “I need to go soon, though.”

“A few more minutes.”

She smiles into their kiss. A few more minutes.

Chapter Text

Steam billows out of the bathroom with Buffy as she exits it, wrapped in a fluffy pink towel. She’s washed all the ash out of her hair, and the smell of her favorite body wash is clinging to her damp skin. She crosses the hall to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Outside her window, the sky is black.

It’s pretty late. Her mom is out, but Buffy didn’t get to see Angel tonight; Giles insisted on some watcher-slayer training during patrol. The last week as a whole has been a little bit sparse on time spent in Angel’s apartment, and she’s just thinking what a shame that is when she feels a vampire nearby: a prickling at the base of her skull. 

Before she even looks over at the window to see the silhouette outside it, she knows it’s him. His presence is starting to register differently from other vampires, maybe because of her familiarity with him.

He taps the glass. She crosses the room and opens the window one-handed, the other keeping her towel in place.

“Hey! What are you doing here?” she asks, cheery.

Propped up on the sill by his elbows, he answers, “I was walking by and saw that your mom’s car isn’t in the driveway. Took a chance.”

“She’ll be back soon, I think. But, uh, you can come in for now.”

Buffy decides not to call him out on walking by. They both know he has a tendency to lurk. 

She steps aside so that he can climb into her room, and he shuts the window behind himself. He’s been in her bedroom before, but it feels different now. The air between them is charged, and the intimacy of having him in here is not lost on her. She tamps down the absurd urge to walk over to where Mister Gordo is sitting on her pillow and turn him around so he’s facing the headboard.

Angel is eyeing the middle of her thighs, visible below the bottom of her towel. He asks, “All clean?” and his tone is deceptively innocent, but there’s an upward tilt to his mouth.

“I’m not opposed to getting dirty again,” Buffy replies, and then turns pink at her own words as the tilt becomes a full smirk.

Angel kisses her, his hands moving to her lower back through her towel. Her body temperature is still elevated from the shower, and it makes him feel cooler by comparison, which—bizarrely—she finds sort of hot. It really shouldn’t be, she knows, just like the thought of his fangs shouldn’t be a turn-on. She’s not sure if it’s because she’s the slayer, or if she’s just all twisted up inside on her own, but something about his inhumanness is attractive in a scary, heart-pounding, palms-sweating kind of way.

With his cold hands, Angel guides her to her own bed and lays her on it perpendicular to the head, her legs hanging off the side. He runs one hand along the vertical edge of her towel, moving up her body, and she takes her hands off the knot of fabric at her chest that keeps it in place. He plucks the knot until it falls away and then spreads the towel open, baring her body.

She realizes that this is the first time he’s seeing her completely nude. His eyes roam across her, dark and twinkling, and she shivers. Spread out on the bed like this, she feels so exposed, but the vulnerability of it is arousing. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and goosebumps erupt all over her skin from the weight of his gaze on her.

“You’re so pretty, Buffy,” Angel murmurs, skating fingertips over her belly.

He leans over her body to kiss her and she tucks her hand beneath the collar of his shirt to feel his skin as she kisses back. Her mouth opens under his, and his hands run along her body, exploring her collarbone, her abs, her sternum, her breasts, her arms. Eventually, he draws one hand down, petting the tuft of curly golden hair at the apex of her thighs. She parts her legs and he lowers his fingers further to stroke her pussy, just on the outside.

The kiss ends when he separates from her to suck a hickey into the base of her neck, mouthing his way down to her collarbone and then to her chest. She makes a happy little noise and tangles her hands in his hair, wrapping her legs around his waist as he nips at the underside of one of her breasts. He teases her nipple to hardness with his lips and teeth and then does the same to the other, still running his fingers over her.

Angel moves down to her bellybutton and swipes his tongue into it, which makes her jump and then laugh. To Buffy’s surprise, though, he continues to descend until he’s kneeling between her legs, kissing at her inner thigh.

She squirms a little, her body warming, and asks, “What are you doing?”

“Well, I was—sort of thinking I would eat you out.” Angel looks up at her. “Is that… okay? I know we haven’t done that…”

“Eat—oh.” Buffy remembers fantasizing about what his tongue might feel like. She never thought he’d actually want to do that, but now that he’s said he does, she feels like she’s already dripping onto the towel beneath her, aching with the need to be touched. “Okay,” she says, and her voice is breathy and eager.

He takes her legs and lifts them over his shoulders, tugging her closer to the edge of the bed by her hips. He wraps his arms around her thighs and wastes no time, leaning in and licking a broad stripe from her opening to her clit. She groans loud and guttural, accidentally kicking him high on his back when she bends her knees to try and pull him closer. His tongue is wet and smooth and flexible, and the way it changes shape to flatten against her makes a delicious tingling warmth spread up her back.

Angel licks at her, sliding his tongue between where her skin parts. He makes rings around her entrance, occasionally dipping his tongue in shallowly, and strokes his thumbs firmly along the sides of her pussy, up and down. When he flicks lightly at her clit with his tongue she lets out a sharp moan, and when he draws a slippery circle around it she bucks up into his mouth. He shoves his tongue against her clit harder, rubbing it rhythmically. She makes choked little whimpers and digs her fingers into his scalp.

“God,” she sobs, eyes shut tight and back arching. She doesn’t even know what she’s asking for when she tacks on, “Angel, please.”

Angel knows what to give her, though. He presses one finger into her, and then a second. Instead of curling his fingers up like he did last time, he pushes down, and the sensation of it makes her feel so incredibly full of him, like he’s everywhere inside her. Then he wraps his lips around her clit and sucks, and a shrill shout flies from her as she lifts off the bed to grind against his mouth. Fireworks burst behind her eyelids, and there’s a gush of wetness against his face and hand, and she’s coming and coming and coming and it feels like it lasts ages. The warm damp pressure of his mouth just keeps drawing it out longer and longer as he keeps suckling at her clit, her body shuddering and throbbing.

Finally, she can’t take it anymore, and she makes a wounded noise and pushes him away weakly. He laps gently at her skin as he pulls out, cleaning her up, and then sits back to suck on his own fingers. Her legs slide off his shoulders. She pants hard, trying to catch her breath as she stares dazedly upward.

“Did you like that, Buffy?” Angel asks, stroking one of her kneecaps with his clean hand.

She feels like she’s half-melted, all the strength leaching out of her relaxed muscles. Breathlessly, she replies, “Didn’t suck.” When she manages to get her heart rate back to normal, she adds, “God. Could you maybe do that again, like, every single day for the rest of our lives?”

He crawls up to lay beside her on the bed, gazing at her with adoration and a grin on his face. His lips are shiny, and when he leans in for a kiss, she instinctively leans away. 

“Oh,” he says, backing off. “Right. Sorry. You don’t have to.”

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly. “It’s just—I mean, ick, right?”

He licks deliberately at his own lips, shrugging. “‘Ick’ is not a word I’d use for it, personally.”

Buffy wrinkles her nose. Well, if he says so… She grabs him by the collar and tugs him closer. She’s cautious about slotting her mouth to his, licking the taste of herself from him, but when she discovers that it’s really not all that bad, she lets herself sink into the kiss fully.

She’s just starting to regain some strength in her limbs when she hears a car door slam outside. A moment later, there are keys rattling in the lock downstairs, and adrenaline courses through Buffy as she leaps from her bed on wobbly legs.

“Your mom’s home,” Angel realizes, and crosses the room as swift as a shadow. He’s opening the window and halfway out of it before she even manages to throw a drawer open and rummage for something to wear.

She yanks a pajama top on and then scurries to the window to give him a goodbye kiss. He waves and drops to the ground outside silently, and she shuts the window and hurries to button her shirt.

She’s just managed to pull her pajamas on when she hears her mom’s voice calling out to her from the stairs: “Buffy? Are you up? I see lights on up there.”

“Yeah, Mom,” Buffy replies, poking her head out of her room. “I just got out of the shower.”

“Did you have a nice evening?” Her mom smiles up at her.

Buffy tries not to look too much like a deer in headlights, schooling her expression into a neutral half-smile. “Yeah, Mom. It was good.”

☾

Angel’s mouth on her felt so good that for the next few nights in a row it’s all that Buffy fantasizes about when she touches herself. His tongue on her, his fingers inside her, the suction around her clit. She makes herself come thinking about it in her bed and in the shower, and at some point, the fantasy starts to morph.

What would it be like to put her mouth on him? 

Blow jobs are another thing she knows about in theory, but in practice, the logistics of it seem difficult. How is she possibly supposed to fit all that in her mouth? She thinks she’d choke on it, and that’s got to be terribly unsexy. All in all, the whole experience seems likely to be about as pleasant as a trip to the dentist.

And yet she keeps thinking about it. She wonders if she’ll be able to feel the veins in his dick throbbing on her tongue. She wants to know what he feels like in her mouth, and she bets that he’ll make all sorts of appreciative noises while she does it, which: super hot.

Plus, he did it for her, and it seems only right to return the favor. Not that she feels obligated; she knows he’d never pressure her into it if she didn’t want to. She just believes in reciprocity, and the thought of making him feel as good as he made her feel is enticing.

That brings Buffy back to her initial problem, though: she has no idea how to make it good. She’s heard of girls practicing on phallic food items; a banana seems like it would just fall apart in her mouth, so she decides to try something else. But when she goes to the fridge and takes out one of those mini cucumbers her mom always buys, she feels stupid for even considering it, and just ends up eating the thing. The size of it’s not right anyway.

She doubts that the school library will have any helpful literature either, and even if it did, it’s not like she can ask Giles for help finding it—huge no, thank you. She could order a magazine, but what if her mom finds it under her mattress, or sees it on her credit card bill? In the end, she decides she’s just going to have to jump into the deep end and hope she learns quickly. Angel’s had no complaints so far anyway.

The next time she gets an opportunity is twelve days after he came in through her bedroom window. The cemeteries are still and silent, and patrol goes by swiftly, so she’s able to cross the threshold of Angel’s apartment while the night is relatively young. She’s got a lot of pent-up energy from not getting to kill anything—which is totally unfair, since a good fight amps her up just as much as the absence of one—and she all but throws herself at him as soon as the door is shut.

His startled exclamation is muffled by her mouth, and then he leans into the kiss, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her up to carry her to the bed. He lays her down slowly, his kiss turning cautious, and when he pulls away to give her a look of concern she realizes he must be able to hear that her heart is beating harder and faster than it usually does, at least before they get to the more-than-kissing activities.

“Everything okay, Buffy?”

“Oh—yeah! Way okay. Totally fine. Cucumber girl, that’s me.” Her eyes go wide. “Er—as in, ‘cool as a,’ not as in, like—having a special affection for them. Not that I’m all cucumber-hatey or anything. I mean, I have no strong thoughts or feelings about cucumbers one way or the other. I am… cucumber-neutral.” She pinches her own leg to stop the nervous babbling as he stares blankly at her. She takes a deep breath and tries again: “Uh… What I meant to say is that… I sort of want to try something, but… I have no idea if I’m gonna be any good at it.”

Angel relaxes at that, laying down beside her on the bed. He brushes a strand of hair out of her face and sneaks one hand under her shirt to run his fingertips affectionately over her abs.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he tells her, lifting a corner of his lips. “What did you want to try?”

Bashful, she presses her nose against his neck to hide her face. She speaks against his skin, muffled: “I want to… do what you did. Um, with my mouth. For you.”

“Oh,” he says, and he sounds breathy and pleasantly surprised, the same way she did when he said it to her. “Yeah?”

Buffy nods and scrapes her teeth over his Adam’s apple, reaching up to unbutton his shirt. Angel sits up straight to shrug the button-up off, and she follows to bite at his collarbone. He leans down to kiss her again as she runs her hands over his pecs. When she tweaks his nipples, he doesn’t really have much of a reaction, which is… sort of disappointing, but whatever. She separates her lips from his to bite right over where his pulse would be in his neck, and that gets a satisfying jolt out of him. She drops a hand to his lap and finds him half-hard, getting harder.

“Buffy,” he says. “Are you… sure you want to do this? I don’t want you to feel like you have to just because I—”

“I want to,” she interrupts. “Really. Just, um… Tell me if I do it wrong?”

Angel’s throat bobs. “I don’t think you need to worry about it.”

Buffy sinks to her knees at the side of the bed, kneeling between his legs. She unbuckles his belt for him and pulls it through the loops, then sets it aside as he unbuttons and unzips. She waves his hands away and reaches into his boxer briefs to pull his erection out.

She gives it a couple of strokes to buy herself some time, resolutely not looking up at his face. His dick is all flushed and heavy in her hand, and it gets firmer as she strokes it. When she feels like she’s steadied herself enough, she grips it at the base and leans in to press the flat of her tongue against the shaft and drag up towards the head. She licks across the tip and he sighs quietly, reaching out with one hand to cup the side of her face and run his thumb over her cheek.

She opens her mouth and wraps her lips around the head, laving the underside of it with her tongue and suckling. Angel’s skin doesn’t have a particularly strong taste, and he feels big in her mouth as she tries to fit more of him in.

“Don’t push yourself,” he murmurs, sliding his hand further back along her head to scratch gently at the base of her skull. “Take your time.”

Buffy looks up at him instinctively when he speaks, making eye contact through her lashes, and she sees the way his already-dark eyes darken further. He groans, hips flexing and dick twitching between her lips as she breathes through her nose.

There’s a fair amount of it that she just can’t get into her mouth, so she squeezes at the base with her hands to compensate. Thinking about what he likes her to do with her hands, she tries to replicate it with her mouth, pulling back a bit so she can slide her tongue under his foreskin and lick over the weeping head. The moan he lets out goes straight to her clit, and she shifts in place, pressing her thighs together.

Oddly, she realizes she sort of likes being between Angel’s legs like this. His much-larger form brackets hers well, and she feels safe looking up at him. His hand on the back of her head is comforting, too. She lets her eyes slip shut as she presses her tongue flat against the underside of his dick again, feeling the vein there.

Buffy opens her mouth wider and tries to get as much of his erection into it as she can. It gets a bit harder to breathe, but she’s not choking, and she grips and strokes what doesn’t fit, pressing with her thumb. She sucks on him carefully, trying to keep her teeth out of the way, hollowing out her cheeks. Her tongue teases at the slit.

She considers pausing to ask him if there’s something she can do better, but he keeps making these little whimpery noises that she never wants to stop hearing, and Buffy decides that they probably mean she’s doing fine. She keeps going, sucking and licking and squeezing with her hand. The slurping noise is sort of obscene, but he doesn’t seem to mind, so she tries not to either.

Her jaw is starting to get sore when he says in a warning tone, “Buffy,” and tugs lightly at her hair, pulling her away. “I’m—I’m close.”

She disconnects her mouth from him with a wet pop just long enough to say, “Okay,” and then wraps her lips back around the tip and sucks harder, one hand pumping his shaft near the base and the other on his balls.

Angel makes a strangled noise that might be her name and then comes in her mouth, spilling across her tongue. She tries to swallow it, but some escapes, dribbling down her lower lip and chin, dripping onto her lap. She keeps him in her mouth until his dick stops spurting, and then withdraws to lap up what’s clinging to the tip of him. She licks at her lips and then wipes her chin on the back of her hand and looks up at him.

He’s staring down at her, dazed and slack-jawed. He looks so cute and dopey, and she tries to suppress a smile. She squirms a little where she’s kneeling, heat between her thighs that she’s doing her best to ignore.

“Um. How was that?” she asks.

Angel closes his mouth and nods. He clears his throat but his voice is still rough when he says, “That was—you did great, Buffy. That was really good.” He blinks rapidly a few times as if clearing his vision, and then reaches for her, pulling her up into a standing position from under her arms. “C’mere,” he says, and the quiet timbre of his voice makes her tingle.

He pulls her into his lap and kisses her, licking into her mouth like he’s searching for something. Without breaking the kiss, Buffy feels around for one of his hands, and when she finds it she drags it between her legs and sets it against the button of her pants. He opens them up and sticks his hand down the front of them, probing gently through her underwear. He rubs circles around her clit, fabric catching on the contours of her body, and she shudders at the sensation, losing focus on her kissing.

“You want it, too?” he asks, and she can’t decipher what he means, but she nods anyway.

Angel deposits her carefully on the bed, her head on his pillows, and then gets to work divesting her of her pants and underwear. Being naked from the waist-down feels more exposing and uncomfortable than just being completely nude, so she’s quick to shed her top and her bra as well, wiggling in place self-consciously as he rakes his eyes over her.

When he’s looked his fill, he lays on his belly between her thighs and licks her from her opening to her clit. Her fingers wind their way into his hair and she lets her eyes close as he continues to lap at her flesh. He sucks anything he can into his mouth, and pushes his tongue into her, too. He scrapes his teeth lightly over the hood of her clit and the pleasure of it is sharp and hot, right before he applies the cool wet balm of his tongue.

When he presses one of his fingers inside her, she lifts her legs over his shoulders as if to hold his upper body in place. He thrusts with one finger and then two, curling them up to brush against a sensitive area that makes her leg muscles twitch.

Her hips grind up against his face as she tips her head back and moans, feeling wanton and a little bit wild. His tongue and his fingers really do reach all the best spots. She fantasizes about what it might feel like to have his dick inside her, so much bigger than his fingers, thick and firm and leaking. Her thoughts are a flurry of colors and shapes and possible sensations, and her body is alight with the feeling of him sucking on her clit. She comes imagining both things happening at once: his mouth on her and his dick inside her.

She feels floaty and sensitive as he licks away the wetness that spilled out of her during her orgasm, stretching her legs and holding his head to her.

“Mm. That’s nice,” she mumbles sleepily, enjoying the feeling of him cleaning her up. He seems content to just stay there for as long as she’ll let him, and she has no desire to make him stop. He looks as drowsy and happy as she feels, eyelids drooping and pupils dilated as he slowly licks her.

When she feels herself starting to doze, she reluctantly forces herself awake, and gives his head a little push. He flops onto the bed beside her with a huff, and his breath smells like her.

“I think I have to go,” she says, unhappy about it.

Angel makes an equally-displeased grumbling noise, wrapping an arm around her abdomen and pressing a kiss to her neck.

“I don’t want to leave,” she admits.

“I don’t want you to go,” he agrees.

“I have to. It’s really late.”

He snuffles against her neck. “Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll walk you.”

She leans down and kisses him on the mouth.

Chapter Text

Another two weeks have gone by and they’re on her bed again instead of his, early in the night. Oral has quickly become one of Buffy’s favorite things to do with Angel, and they’ve done it several times in his bed since the last time they were in hers, but that’s not what they’re doing now. Instead, Buffy’s in just her panties, straddling an equally-undressed Angel. His dick is hard in his boxer briefs, pressing between her legs through two thin layers of damp underwear. She’s leaning over him, her hands on his shoulders, his hands on her ass, and her mouth open against his as she grinds on him. She’s thinking once more about what it would be like to go all the way, which as of recently is featuring in her fantasies more often than not.

She’s not sure that she wants to do it right this second, but it seems like every night they spend time together, they get closer to having sex, and… she’s sort of fine with that. The prospect is intimidating, but she feels so comfortable with him that it takes away some of the scariness. She’s so much less embarrassed than she used to be of the noises she makes involuntarily, or how she moves when she’s chasing an orgasm. It’s easy to be around him, for the most part. There’s still the little bit of self-consciousness that comes with being less experienced than him, but he’s never had anything but nice things to say to her. And she loves him, and she wants him to be her first. Not tonight, but soon.

She pulls away from his mouth. She doesn’t go far, her forearms braced flat against his chest and her hands still curled around his shoulders. She gives him a little half-smile that he returns in full. He reaches up to cup her face in one hand, running his thumb over her jaw as the other hand squeezes her butt.

“This feels really good,” she says on a happy sigh, continuing to rub herself against him.

“Yeah,” he agrees. A strand of hair has fallen loose from her ponytail, and he tucks it behind her ear. “You look so pretty like this.”

“Sweaty?” she jokes.

Nodding earnestly, he says, “Yeah. And like you’re having fun.”

Buffy gets what he means. She likes it when he’s less broody and more open, too.

“Mm,” she hums, and tilts her hips to change up the angle a bit.

She lets the conversation lapse, focusing on the ripples of pleasure that run through her body as she ruts against him. Her wet underwear catches and drags, providing friction, and she likes that she can feel the shape of his dick through the fabric.

Right as Buffy resumes thinking about having it inside her, Angel wonders, “What are you thinking about?”

She considers being nonspecific for a second, but honesty has worked out for her so far. She bites the inside of her cheek shyly and admits, “Um. I was thinking about having sex.”

He nods, glancing away briefly before returning his gaze to her. “With… With me, or…?”

She suppresses a smile. “Well, yeah.”

He grins a little at that, and then startles, and his eyes widen. “N…Now?”

“No, no, not right now. Just… in general.”

“Ah.” He nods again, relaxing. “Right. Good.” After a beat of silence, he amends, “I mean, not good—It's not that I don’t want to, I just—” He cuts himself off, struggling to find the right words. Finally he says, “Well, doing it with an audience may be a little intense for the first time.”

She furrows her brow. “An audience?”

Angel points at the nightstand, where Mr. Gordo is staring at them with his glossy black eyes. Buffy bursts out laughing.

“I wouldn’t want him judging my technique,” Angel says. “It’s been a while for me.”

“Oh, he’s very non-judgy,” Buffy reassures him. “He was very polite a few weeks ago, when you were here last time. But I sort of had the same thought then. I considered turning him around so he couldn’t see.”

“On the other hand, it feels rude to be doing something right in front of him and not even consider asking him if he wants to join,” Angel says.

“I think Mrs. Gordo might disapprove.”

“There’s a Mrs. Gordo?”

“Well—I’ve never met her. But I hear she’s lovely.”

“It must be tough to have a long-distance marriage.”

“He’s not really a complainer.”

Buffy pushes herself upright, running her hands over his abdomen. Her thighs are pleasantly sore from her rocking on top of him. He looks so good underneath her, all that smooth pale skin and hard muscle. Angel seems to be enjoying his view of her just as much, watching the way her abs clench, eyeing the subtle bounce of her breasts and the sweat glistening on her skin. His hands have moved to her hips and his thumbs toy aimlessly with the band of her underwear.

“Have you thought about it before?” Angel asks, and it takes her a second to remember how their conversation started.

“Um… A little, yeah.” She leans over him again, locking her elbows and bracing herself with his shoulders to give herself leverage as she grinds. “Just a little.” He looks like he’s about to ask another question, and she jumps in to say, “I, um… I think about this a lot, though. At night, but also, like… when I should really be thinking about other things. In class and on patrol and stuff.”

“I think about this, too,” Angel says. “It’s hard not to think about it when we’re patrolling.”

That surprises her. “Really? I never noticed you were thinking about it.”

“Well, I’ve been told I have a good poker face.”

“Yeah, but—I mean…” She glances down pointedly. “Wouldn’t it be, y’know, noticeable for other reasons, if you were thinking about it?”

The corner of his mouth tics up. “I think you’re overestimating the difficulty of controlling that for a guy well past his teen years.”

“Oh,” says Buffy.

There’s a long pause in which the only sound is the quiet creaking of the bedsprings and the slide of wet fabric. She looks away from him, and then looks back.

“I notice that you respected my total dodging of your question,” she finally says.

“Partial dodging,” he allows. “Technically you answered.”

“And then breezed past whatever follow-up question you were going to ask.”

“You have a right to breeze.”

She chews on her lip. “No, it’s fine. Ask me.”

Angel shrugs. “I was just wondering what your thoughts were. On having sex, I mean.”

“It’s… less terrifying than it used to be,” Buffy confesses. “I’m sort of… getting used to the idea.”

“There’s no hurry,” he tells her.

“No, I know,” she says. “I want to do it. Um, not right this second, but—sometime in the… near future?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says. “I can wait.”

“You won’t be waiting forever,” she assures him. “I’m not planning on joining a nunnery.”

He nods.

Buffy concentrates on the motion of her hips as she rides him, letting go of his shoulders so she can pinch her own nipples. Heat flares through her, and she shudders.

“Buffy,” Angel says, “d’you wanna try something?”

“Try something?” She’s not sure what there is that they haven’t already done, aside from actual sex. “Sure. I could—uh—try.”

He sits up and nudges her off him, then says, “Lay back,” and scoots to the side. She takes up his position, her head on the pillows. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of her panties and asks, “Can I take these off?” At her nod, he slides them down her legs and sets them aside, and then he does the same with his own boxer briefs, his erection bobbing upward. He sits between her legs and gently guides them up until she’s bending her knees by her chest. “Good,” he says. “Now…” 

He gets up and leans over her, and carefully pushes his dick through the space between her thighs. His shaft rests against her clit, and when he pulls back, the slick drag of it makes her exhale shakily. He pushes forward again, smearing a trail of pre-come up the lower part of her belly. 

Angel asks, “How’s that? Is that okay?”

Buffy nods wordlessly, mouth open as she stares down at the flushed head of his dick peeking between her thighs. He thrusts against her slowly, simulating sex, and she’s mesmerized by the sight of their bodies pressed together. She grabs him by the shoulders and digs her nails in, breathing hard. He starts to move slightly faster, settling into a rhythm.

Her instinct is to spread her legs, but she thinks maybe the pressure of her thighs is getting him off, so instead she tightens them around him, and is rewarded with his rumbling groan. She’s dizzy with it, her heart pounding in her temples and between her legs. Buffy doesn’t think she can come from this—the motion isn’t precise enough, and there’s not enough focused pressure against her clit—but it feels so good, and it’s so intimate, and there’s these hiccupy little moans coming from her that she can’t control.

Angel holds himself up over her with hands braced against the bed on either side of her, meeting her gaze with half-lidded eyes. His lips are parted, and he’s panting, thrusting against her, his dick leaking into her pubic hair. She has this thought of he’s fucking my thighs, and it makes her giddy.

“Angel,” she breathes, and wraps her arms around his neck to bring him closer. He leans down and presses his mouth to hers, his hips still moving. The friction of their bodies has made his skin warm, and she decides definitively that she is ready to have sex. She wants him inside her, wants him to make love to her for real, wants it enough that she almost asks for it, right now.

But she can’t. Tonight’s not the night, no matter how her pussy is constricting around nothing. Not when the thing they’re doing right now is so new and so good, Angel’s rhythm faltering as he nears orgasm. She clings to him and arches her hips up into his, letting out a throaty whine.

“Buffy.” His voice is strained. “Are you—can you—?”

“I,” she pants, “I-I can’t,” and bites at his neck right under his jaw.

He nods and wraps his arms around her, and then rolls them both over so he’s on his back underneath her. She straddles him, sitting on his lap, and she picks up where he left off, grinding herself down against his dick, trapping it between her pussy and his belly. She holds tight to his shoulders, riding him, and now she’s able to rub her clit against him as hard as she wants.

“Now?” he asks, and she nods jerkily, clenching her jaw.

A dozen more thrusts and Buffy’s gone, coming on his cock, her vision whiting out and fluid leaking down her thighs. She moans, her whole body tensing and her arms and legs trembling, barely managing to hold her upright. She feels the orgasm everywhere, radiating out from her throbbing clit and lighting up every nerve ending. She can feel his dick twitching beneath her, come spattering his abdomen. When her orgasm finishes, she collapses against his chest, falling right into the puddle of come that’s streaking his belly.

Angel strokes her back, scratching lightly, an anchor. Sated, Buffy stretches out on top of him, letting their bodies get glued together by the sticky remnants of his orgasm. Her own made a bit of a mess, too, and when she shifts she can feel it clinging to her inner thighs, cooling quickly.

Buffy nuzzles into his chest and says, “I’m gonna have to change the sheets before my mom gets home.”

“I can help,” Angel says. “Worth it, though?”

“Definitely.” 

She glances up and sees him smiling at her. God, she wants him so bad. She smothers a grin by burying it in his pecs.

Chapter Text

It’s her seventeenth birthday.

The adrenaline rush of the evening has faded, but there’s a chill seeping through Buffy’s clothes and skin, settling in her bones. Her wet clothes cling to her, her hair dripping, and she shivers at the cold rainwater snaking its way down her body. Her arms are prickly with goosebumps and her teeth chatter, even with the door of Angel’s apartment shutting out the howling storm.

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” Angel says, grasping her by the shoulders.

“Cold,” she manages to reply.

“Let me get you something.” He shuffles through his armoire and withdraws a pair of sweatpants and a big tee shirt, handing them to her. “Put these on. Get under the covers, just to warm up.”

She wanders over to his bed and sits on it gingerly, setting the clothes down beside her. There’s a heaviness in the air. She looks up at him, wondering if he can feel it too, and he turns his back with a quick apology so she can change in privacy.

She unbuttons her blouse and starts to remove it, hissing when the wound on her back flares with pain.

“What?” Angel asks.

“Oh, um, i-it’s okay, I just have a cut or something,” she says quickly, shrugging the blouse the rest of the way off.

“Can I…? Let me see.”

Buffy hesitates. She holds the soaked shirt against her chest, covering the skin bared by her undershirt. She’s not sure why her heart is beating harder all of a sudden, why she’s nervous and jittery. Quietly, she says, “Okay.”

Angel turns around and sits behind her on the edge of the bed. His hands are big and gentle as he brushes aside the strap of her tank-top to get a better look at the injury, and she shivers again, but not from the cold. Something warm and tingling is settling itself low in her belly as his hands sweep over her skin.

“It’s already closed,” he whispers. “You’re fine.” 

His left hand continues to drag the strap of the undershirt down her arm. She feels his presence over her shoulder, comforting, but also arousing. Almost unconsciously, she leans back into him, seeking the relative warmth of his body. She never thought she’d be colder than him, but he was protected from the rain by his big heavy coat, and now his room-temperature body is like a blanket.

She turns and bumps her forehead softly against his temple. He wraps his arms around her, holding her to him. She feels like her blood is heating up, her body coming to life as she sits beside him.

“You almost went away today,” she says, and her heart judders in her chest, almost sick with the thought of it.

“We both did,” he points out, and squeezes her tighter for a second.

Buffy can’t help the sob that claws its way from her. Sniffling and squeaky, she says, “Angel… I feel like I lost you.” 

The insecurity is welling up in her. She feels like a child, small and scared and helpless. He nearly left, and then he nearly died. She wants to cling to him forever, to make sure it never happens again.

“You’re right, though,” she goes on. “We can’t be sure of anything.”

“Shh,” he hushes her tenderly. “I…”

His breath catches, and she turns fully to face him, brushing their noses together. She feels her heartbeat in her throat. As the silence stretches on, she pulls away, scooting back slightly so she can look him in the eye.

“You what?” she asks, hoarse and barely audible.

“I love you,” he confesses, and her eyes widen a little. He’s never said it before. She said it to him once, when they had that fight about Drusilla, but he never said it back. Hearing it now for the first time chases away the leftover chill of the rain, at least for the moment, warming Buffy’s whole body. He goes on: “I try not to, but I can’t stop.”

“Me—Me, too,” she says, voice breaking. “I can’t either.”

Buffy’s crying now, tears mingling with drops of rain on her cheeks. She presses her lips to his, again and again, close-mouthed kisses that feed the heat in her belly.

“Buffy,” he starts to say, “maybe we shouldn’t—”

“Don’t,” she interrupts, nearly begging. “Just kiss me.”

Angel’s hand finds her neck and he opens his mouth to her, giving in. She clings to him, terrified that if she doesn’t, he’ll slip through her fingers like smoke and ash. When he puts his hand on her hip, drawing her closer, she climbs into his lap.

“I want you,” she breathes against his mouth. “Right now. Please.”

He swallows heavily, pulling back to examine her face with dark eyes. Then he lifts her bodily by the hips and lays her back against his pillows.

Angel peels her rain-soaked clothing away from her skin reverently, his hands sweeping over droplets of water and trembling flesh. He feathers kisses across every new bit that he exposes: her collarbones, the tops of her breasts, her belly, her biceps, her wrists. Her bra hits the floor and he plants a kiss on each hard nipple. He moves down the bed to take off her shoes and socks, and then presses kisses to the undersides of her feet, and the bones of her ankles. Her pants and underwear he takes off at the same time, and kisses her knees, her thighs, her hip bones. Then he sits back and shucks his clothes quickly before pulling back the bedcovers so they can both crawl under and try to warm up.

He lays himself on top of her, leaching the cold from her skin as they kiss. She runs her tongue over his teeth, pulls on his lower lip. His hands skate up and down her sides, and then cup her breasts. Angel thumbs her nipples, tweaking gently, and she lets out a soft noise and presses her chest up into his hands.

He kisses his way down her body, disappearing beneath the sheets, and nudges her legs apart. He scrapes his teeth across her inner thigh and noses his way up to her pussy. He licks softly at it, spreading wetness and teasing her clit.

“Angel,” she murmurs, and tips her head back against the pillows. “That’s not… mm… what I want.” Buffy struggles to keep her eyes open, and in spite of her words she finds herself opening her legs wider.

Angel pushes the sheets back so he can look up at her, face still between her thighs. She can feel the movement of his lips against her as he says, “Tell me.”

“I want,” she says, and her voice cracks a little. She bites the inside of her cheek. “I want you to make love to me.”

He nods, face open and earnest. He brushes one finger over her opening and says, “I know. But I want you to be ready first.” For a second she thinks he means emotionally, and she’s about to insist that she is, but then he amends, “Want you nice and wet for me.” He ducks his head to keep licking her, and she moans, hands gripping the sheets.

He eats her out methodically, licking into her and then over her, sliding one finger inside and then two. He rubs his tongue against her clit but doesn’t suck on it, even when she whines and pulls on his hair. When Angel sits up and withdraws his fingers, Buffy’s hips chase after him, mouth open and panting.

“Feel like you’re ready?” he asks, and she nods wordlessly. He hesitates for a moment, and then asks, “Do you want me to wear a condom?”

Her heartbeat is slowing down as she backs away from the edge of orgasm, but she still feels frazzled and unfocused. She asks, “Huh? Why?”

Angel shrugs. “Well, it’s not like I can—I mean, I’m dead, so I don’t—y’know, I can’t, uh—” He scowls at himself, briefly. “Sorry. I just mean… there’s no risk if you want to do it without. But I thought you might want one anyway. For, um, cleanup reasons, or whatever else. Since it’s your first time.”

“Oh.” Buffy thinks about it for a second, squirming as she tries to ignore the throbbing between her legs. “No,” she decides, “I want to feel you come inside me.”

Angel makes a quiet wheeze, knuckles turning white where his hands are in fists resting on his thighs. Hoarsely, he says, “Ah. Um. Yeah, okay.”

She’s not sure why he reacted so strongly—she’d just been speaking honestly—but she doesn’t have time to give it much more thought as he reaches for the bottle of lubricant on the nightstand. He pumps some into his hand and then spreads it over his erection, slicking himself up and giving himself a few tugs for good measure.

Angel leans over her again, pulling the sheets along with him so they stay cocooned in the warmth of the bed. With his hand on his dick, he rubs the tip of it along the seam of her pussy, up and down, smearing her with lube and pre-come and her own arousal. He positions himself at her entrance and then looks up at her for the okay.

“Um,” she says, grabbing him by the shoulders. In a small voice: “D’you think it’s gonna hurt?”

His eyebrows knit together and angle upward with concern. “Uh… I don’t know,” he admits. “It might.”

Chewing anxiously on her lip, Buffy wraps her legs around his hips. “Okay. Just, um, go slow.”

Angel nods and presses a sticky kiss to her cheek, his breath musky with the scent of her. Then he looks down to watch as he presses inside her.

Her breath leaves her as he sinks in slowly, and it feels new, but it doesn’t hurt the way she thought it would. Aches, just a little. It's a feeling of tightness more than anything. He watches her face carefully, her eyelids fluttering and lips parting. When he’s bottomed out inside her he goes still, and she lets out a shuddering groan, curling her toes against his back and her nails into his shoulders.

“How does that feel?” he asks her, and he sounds unsteady, his eyelids drooping like he’s having just as hard of a time as she is keeping them open.

“Full,” she says breathlessly. “Give—Give me a second.”

He nods, thumb drawing soothing circles over her side.

Buffy lets her eyes close, wrapping her arms around Angel’s neck as she adjusts to the feeling of him inside her. Her whole body is shaking, overwhelmed by the sensation and his presence hovering over her. Her heart pounds in her chest, and she’s started to sweat, but none of it’s fear or anxiety. She feels so close to him that there’s almost tears gathering in her eyes.

She flexes experimentally, and he makes a choked stuttering noise and says, “God, Buffy…”

“Mm,” she moans in agreement, high in her throat. “Okay,” she says, and rocks her hips into his to tell him he can move.

With careful tenderness, Angel slowly pulls out and then pushes back in, and the wet glide makes her back arch with pleasure. He makes love to her gently, as if afraid of hurting her, his face against her neck and forearms planted on the bed for leverage.

Buffy feels the pressure winding tighter immediately, picking up from where he left off with his mouth. She’s going to come so fast, she can tell, and she’s trying to be sorry about it but she just feels so good. She clutches at his back and tenses her thighs and meets his thrusts with her own rolling hips, gasping and whining and trembling. Angel props himself up on one arm so he can use his other hand to rub her clit, and that’s all it takes for her to clamp down around him and moan long and loud as she comes. It’s one of the best ones she’s had, bright spots appearing behind her eyelids and her whole body quivering with the force of it, wetness dribbling down her thighs and pooling in the sheets as she holds onto him for dear life.

“Ah—Angel,” she cries weakly, wriggling under him as her muscles all contract and then relax. The orgasm fades and that feeling of release spreads through her, her body going limp for a moment.

Angel’s hand leaves her clit to play with her breasts, flicking over her nipples and brushing ticklishly along the undersides. He’s still hard and heavy inside her, licking her neck like a cat. He thrusts into her lightly, and he’s tense all over like he’s holding himself back, with effort.

“Doing okay?” he asks her.

“Uh-huh,” Buffy manages, and twitches her hips up towards him. “You can, um, do it a little harder. If you want.” She blushes as she says it, shy but wanting to see him let go, trusting that he won’t overdo it.

She hears him swallow. 

“You sure?” he asks, and she nods.

Angel picks up the pace a bit, strengthening his thrusts. The bed shakes as he moves faster and just that little bit harder, still careful but less reserved. Her pussy makes a slick noise as his dick slides in and out of her, and she feels warm and wet and comfortable.

“Think you can come again?” Angel wonders.

“I don’t know,” she says. “This feels good, though.” She arches her hips into him, legs still wrapped around his waist.

He nods against her neck and then bites down on it, not particularly hard, but the blunt pain of his teeth makes heat flood through her body. His hand finds her clit again and brushes gently along the sides of it, not touching it directly, and she groans her appreciation. Angel keeps up the moderate pace of his thrusts, and Buffy presses her mouth against the skin of his neck, kissing and licking and nipping just for the joy of doing it.

“Love you,” he mutters against her temple. The low tone of his voice makes her limbs feel all wobbly, butterflies in her stomach. 

She sniffles a little, eyes watering, and says, “Y-Yeah. Love you, too.”

A few minutes later she finds the answer to his question as she has another orgasm, this one slower and not quite as powerful, rolling through her like a wave as she exhales. It feels warm and bright as the pleasure travels through her, and his rhythm stutters as he gets pulled over the edge by the way her insides clench and pulse. Buffy can feel Angel’s dick throbbing, a cool wet rush as he comes into her.

He lays on top of her, big and heavy and warm from the heat her body has shared with him. There’s a vibration in his chest that Buffy’s certain is some sort of vampiric purring. After a moment, Angel pulls himself out of her, settling beside her and gathering her up in his arms to pull her close. She snuggles into his chest, sleepy and sated, and Angel begins to stroke his fingers through her damp hair.

“Okay?” he asks quietly.

“Mm-hmm,” she says, and can’t quite make herself open her eyes. She lays there, letting him pet her, enjoying the feeling of his hands on her as they cuddle beneath the blankets. She’s not expected back home tonight; Mom won’t be back until the morning. For once, she doesn’t have to leave the warmth of his bed.

Buffy’s dozing lightly, and Angel presses a kiss to her forehead. He whispers, “You should, um… probably get up in a second. Clean off a little.”

Buffy makes a discontented grumbly noise in response, and he huffs a laugh.

“I know, I know,” he chuckles.

She lets him nudge her into wakefulness, and then he walks across his apartment naked to retrieve a wet washcloth for her. She watches him the whole way, eyes following the curve of his ass. He helps her clean herself off, and then she uses the restroom, and then she climbs back into his bed and burrows herself in his blankets as deeply as she can. There’s surprise on his face as he crawls in beside her.

“Buffy, are you… staying?”

She nods, wrapping her arms around his neck to pull him closer.

“The whole night?” he asks, like he can’t quite believe it.

She grins at him, and pushes him down to the bed so she can curl up on top of him.

“Uh-huh,” she says.

He beams at her, and his arms circle around her. She stretches a little, pleasantly sore between her legs, and Angel resumes stroking her hair.

“Tomorrow morning,” she says, yawning, “can you make pancakes?”

He’s silent for a second. “I think I may have some flour somewhere,” he decides.

Buffy can hear the muted pattering of the rain outside, and the distant rumble of thunder. But it doesn’t matter, and she rubs her face against his chest affectionately. They’re safe from the storm in his bed, and for now, they’re happy.