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AUTHOR: Ducks, THE ANTI-JOSS
E-MAIL: ducksfanfic@yahoo.com
DISCLAIMER: *snort* Yeah, right.
RATING: NC-17
IMPROV #21 - Happy Ending. Hey, a mind-bending orgasm (or two... or three...) counts. And YES it does so count if it's B/A. Sheesh. ;)
TIMELINE: Future.
PAIRING: B/A SPOILERS: Um... general B/A?
SYNOPSIS: Angel comes home after a long night's work to find a surprise. Dessert ensues. *g*
DISTRIBUTION: Anyone who has my stuff, please feel free. Otherwise, just ask. I'll say yes. ;)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: A desperately needed fluff/smut break from Something Old. No curse. No plot. No angst and woe. Just smut. And whipped cream. :) Great literature, it ain't.
FEEDBACK: Sure, I'd love some. Naked Angels and Spikes accepted as offerings of thanks. *weg*
CONTENT: Explicit m/f sexuality; language; bloodplay
DEDICATION: To my poor, tortured minion Dru, who is developing ulcers from SO:B4. To Margot LeFaye because, well, Jesus... "Storming Heaven" is just the most beautiful, heartbreaking, delicious, dark, angsty, hopeful Buffy-death story anywhere. *sigh* And to Shirl, who gave a resounding Horshak "Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!" when I asked for a beta. To Vatrixsta... because she talked me out of having Angel indulge in some really silly fucktalk. To Serena... just because she's so damn cool, and to Anja, who's having as bad a month at work as I am. Love you, guys.
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When Angel got home and saw the front door, he had a bizarre (and honestly, none-too pleasant) pang of deja vu to find a single long-stemmed red rose taped to its face.
He stared at it in horror for a long moment. That dark, sordid part of his mind that always imagined such things suddenly wondered if someone had decided that today was a good day to pay his demon some sorely deserved retribution, and if maybe when he entered, inside he would find a bottle of champagne chilling on the dining room table and the air infused with the mournful strains of Puccini and Buffy's dead body, twisted and broken, lying with her neck at an unnatural angle in their bed.
He shook his head and took a deep breath. 'Okay... getting a little paranoid in your old age, aren't you?'
Then he noticed the note tucked beneath the flower -- and it was not careful calligraphy drawn on parchment paper, but big, loopy, girly script scratched hastily on a sheet torn from Buffy's pink notebook.
Definitely an improvement. A smile finally slipped across his lips as he lifted the rose and note from the door, taking a moment to sniff the former as he gently unfolded the latter.
"Dear Occupant:" it began. He chuckled, tucking the rose between his teeth and fumbling with his keys to let himself in.
Inside, the atmosphere was dreamlike. Hundreds of glass-shielded pillar candles lined every surface, flickering softly, casting the dining room in a golden glow. Soft music played -- not opera, thank the Gods, but Enya -- and on the table before him sat not a bottle of champagne on ice, but a can of whipped cream and a silver bowl filled with fresh strawberries.
His grin spread an inch as he tossed his keys on the table, flung his coat haphazardly over the hook, kicked off his boots, and read the rest of the missive.
"You will find on the table the ingredients for strawberry shortcake... sans cake. Use your imagination as to what the substitute might be.
Hint: It's me. I'm naked and freshly bathed, waiting for you upstairs. Stop gawking and hurry up. I'm getting cold.
Sincerely,
Your Devoted Love Slut.
P.S. If you're *not* Angel, you should be warned that I have a very big, very nasty sword under my bed, and my very big, very nasty husband will eat *you* for dessert if you don't turn back right now. And I am *not* *your* devoted love slut. Just so we're clear."
He chuckled again and set the note beside his keys, dashing at top speed into the dining room. Upon closer inspection of the spread laid out before him, he found that a sheer pair of black thigh-high stockings surrounded the fixings, also with a note attached.
"For tying down wriggly desserts," it read.
His dead heart -- and other, not so dead parts -- throbbed.
Stockings, strawberries and whipped cream firmly in hand, Angel made his way up the stairs, already fairly salivating in anticipation.
He *was* pretty hungry.
A trail of clothing guided him along the way: tidy, businesslike navy wool blazer draped over the handrail... matching skirt on the middle step... cream silk blouse left like a welcome mat at the top.
He moved down the hallway toward their bedroom, following the signs as if he was tracking prey... which, considering the rumble in his belly and the fire sparked in his blood, he imagined he rather was.
Lacy slip covering the table in the hall... demi-bra suspended off the mirror post, and finally, tiny thong panties hanging on the doorknob.
He picked up the scrap of black silk and lace, pausing to take a very long, deep, suddenly desperately needed breath, inhaling her scent from it -- the enticing aroma of Buffymusk -- before he opened the door.
There she was... a breathtaking sculpture of soft, living flesh, gently draped with the crimson silk of the sheets they had selected together, her skin glowing gold in the candlelight, and wearing a welcoming smile that managed sweetness and hunger all at once.
For one of her heartbeats, he was stunned frozen by the sight of her. This fulfillment after years being denied one another pressed heavily on his heart, and not for the first time, he wondered...
'How did I ever live without her? How did I bear to come home to an empty house, an empty bed, empty arms? How is it I didn't just perish from starvation for her?'
As he stood there, staring, he smiled to himself.
Did any of that really matter now?
"Hey," she greeted softly, the ambiance of the room not conducive to louder speech.
"Hey," he replied, as he did every time he returned to her -- a single word communicating a million thoughts and emotions at once.
He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, and approached the altar where his goddess lay waiting for his devotion. As he drew closer, he could smell the scent of her clean skin... the light rose oil she'd used mixing with her body's own spicy vanilla to create an olfactory feast like no other in all of his entire long existence.
Angel felt himself harden instantly inside the confines of his clothes, his hands already burning to touch her... his mouth to taste her... his ears to hear her sighs and cries of pleasure, to complete his sensory bliss.
He dangled the panties from his index finger and gave her a wry grin. "Are these yours?"
Her eyes crinkled up, a finely plucked eyebrow arching sardonically. "They'd better not be anybody else's."
He held them up to his face again, setting the foodstuffs and stockings down at the nightstand, and looked thoughtfully into space.
"Hm," he replied thoughtfully, taking a long, loud sniff, "Let me see if I can place the scent. It's so difficult to keep track of all my lovers."
Buffy abruptly sat up and yanked the offending garment out of his hand and carelessly tossed it aside. Then she reached out to grab his hand and pulled him over to stand before her.
She let her bare legs swing loose on either side of his, and nuzzled her nose into the cashmere covering his midsection. Glancing up at him with sleepy bedroom eyes, she flashed a mischievous grin.
"You need to be a lot nakeder," she informed him, and before he could even suggest that maybe she should do something to help him out with that, her little hands snaked beneath his sweater, pushing it up over his torso, brushing his sides with a feather soft caress until she reached his shoulders. He acquiesced to her unspoken request, raising his arms up over his head, and let her divest him of the first half of the barrier separating them.
He sighed deep in his chest as her hands mapped the contours of his form... tiny warm fingertips tracing paths of fire over his skin. He gasped when her hot little tongue joined the sojourn, flicking soft and wet down the meridian of his body, pausing only momentarily to dip into his belly button.
She had barely even begun, and already he was about to disintegrate in her hands.
For her part, Buffy had very nearly forgotten all about the detailed seduction that she had been planning all day. Already wiped from her memory were sweet daydreams that had drawn her attention away from the doldrums of her faculty meeting, pulling her consciousness into this very scene. The candles... the music... the silken ties and the whipped cream.
But then, he always did that to her. Just the thought of his smile, his big, strong hands, his deep, velvety voice were enough to drive her to distraction. And when she was actually blessed to see him... touch him... the whole universe... all thoughts of anything but this very moment, evaporated instantly.
For all the years they'd been back together, Buffy had been searching for an accurate word to describe her incredible lover. Something that could encompass all of the things about him that had always filled her so deeply, so completely, that she couldn't imagine how she'd survived the years when they were apart.
It would have to be a word that captured his physical characteristics... deserving a soliloquy in their own right. His imposing height... his impossibly wide shoulders, and broad, thickly muscled chest. Something that told of his long, graceful arms and wide, gentle hands -- which could wield an enormous broadsword, cleaving the head off some monster one moment, and hold her, stroke her so tenderly, so carefully that she might have been made of glass the next. His trim waist... his tight abdomen, his firm, rounded ass. His thick, perfect thighs... his long, lean legs, all the way down to his flawlessly straight, perfectly proportioned toes. The soft, cool marble of his skin, the deep chocolate pools of his expressive eyes... his tender lips... his proud jaw, his regal cheekbones, his thick, careless hair...
And that wasn't even to mention how he made her laugh... how he challenged her mind and body... filled her heart and soul. How he held her when she cried, listened patiently when she babbled, offered his wisdom and solace when she needed it.
She could go on and on... his intelligence, his dry, self-deprecating humor. His courage and strength of conviction. His generous spirit. His poet's heart.
All hers. But try as she might, she could never find that word. 'Perfect' was as close as she ever got, and that was so weak, it was pitiful.
So she was left with only this: touching him. Kissing him. Letting the storm of desire, admiration, and love raging in her heart out through her fingertips, her lips, and into his skin.
She undid his fly, flicking her tongue along the fine line of hair that railed from his belly to his crotch as she slid them down those... *god's* legs... following her hands' journey with her mouth. Then she spread little nibbles and kisses inside his knees, his thighs, all the way up to where his erection stood proudly, begging for her attention.
She took the thick staff in her hand -- she couldn't close her small fingers around his girth, and sometimes wondered how it was that he didn't split her in half -- and gave a few gentle strokes, peeking up to watch his eyes flutter shut and his mouth go slack, his head tilting back and his hands tangling in her hair as he hissed with pleasure.
The hiss became a rumbling moan as she licked around the root of him, tickling over his testicles and the sensitive silk of the perineum beneath. She reveled in the shudder that shook him from head to foot as she laved up his length in slow motion, around and up until she reached the bulging head. Swiftly, she suckled it between lips pulled tight, flicking her tongue to sweep away the pre-ejaculate that had already gathered there, and let out an involuntary groan of her own at the joy of his saltycool taste.
Angel cried out as she took the whole of him into her throat, holding him by the base with one hand, softly kneading one hard globe of his rear with the other as she sucked.
"Oh... Christ, Buffy..." he grunted, his fingers grasping spasmodically at her scalp. Forcing his eyes open, he looked down, unable to resist the temptation of this erotic vision... his cock vanishing between her tender lips.... her eyes closed in concentration, her small hand working in tandem with her mouth. It was a hypnotizing sight, above and beyond the searing waves of ecstasy building in his blood. Her head bobbing up, followed by a long, firm stroke of her hand... down again, taking him deep. Up... out... down... in... The hand not busy in front occupied behind, lighting sparks on his buttocks, tickling the coarse hair between, gripping and smoothing his thighs, cupping his aching sac.
This was not promising to be a record-breaking time to orgasm -- unless the record was for brevity. He usually prided himself on his stamina -- 100 years of celibacy, and 150 of varied experience before that had to count for *some* measure of self-control -- but when she tended to him like this, building up her pace and grip to a pulse he didn't possess, until she was devouring him with ferocious, mind-bending, hardfasttight enthusiasm...
It might as well have been his first time.
He clutched fistfuls of her hair, unable to resist the urge to thrust deeper into the wet warmth of her mouth as the inferno consumed him. But she loosened the muscles of her throat and met his insistent overtures, taking all of him until he could feel her tonsils against his head. Her hand reached down to gently cup and roll his balls once more, and in barely the time it took for her tongue to make one final sweep around and over the ultra-sensitive ridge of his head, he erupted with a shout that rattled the windows... a long, keening wail as his body tensed and jerked, and he shuddered a final time as he shot his cool, thick pleasure into her willing throat.
When she had drunk him down and licked him clean, she pulled away, grinning up at him.
"Now, *whose* panties are those?" she quipped.
His trembling knees gave way, sending him crashing to the bed beside her, never happier (well, almost never) that he didn't need to breathe. As it was, he shivered from head to foot, his voice shaking as he replied,
"D-definitely... yours."
Buffy bent down and claimed his lips, sucking first the top, then the bottom, firmly between her teeth.
"That's what I thought," she whispered smugly.
He chuckled, taking a moment to regain his bearings, relishing her touch as the world slowly stopped spinning, and she gently traced fingertip circles on his chest.
But he didn't wait long.
With a feral snarl and a burst of preternatural speed and dexterity, he rose to his knees, flipped her onto her back, and lashed her wrists to the headboard with the stockings she had so generously provided.
It happened so fast, she didn't even have time to yelp.
When she was bound, already writhing in anticipation, he grabbed the can of whipped cream from the nightstand, shaking it firmly as he gazed down at her with a lusty grin.
"Time for dessert," he rumbled, and popped off the cap.
Buffy squealed with delight and giggled helplessly as he covered her from throat to toes with the cool, sticky cream. But her giggles swiftly dissolved into blissful sighs as he bent his talented mouth to the sweet concoction he'd just created of her flesh.
Her skin was so hot, it melted quickly, and Angel was moving his lips and tongue so achingly slowly, that she was soon nothing but a puddle of gooey, sugary, melted goo under his touch.
Of course, he took his time. Every inch of her was a carnal delight, an almost unbearably rich sensory banquet, with or without topping. He laved long, languid lines under her chin, down her throat, across her clavicle. He tasted and nibbled her slender shoulders, the insides of her strong arms, outstretched above her head. He stole a small eternity to suckle each of her slender fingers... tracing tiny tongue circles into her palms, and nipped softly at the pulse pounding in her bound wrists.
By the time he came to nurse at her painfully hard nipples, Buffy was already panting and whimpering, and he was already hard again, aching to bury himself in the wet heat he could scent growing between her tanned, muscular legs.
He resisted the urge, though, too entranced by her beautiful body's responses to what he was doing. How she gasped as he gently bit down on one ruby peak, worrying it between his teeth as he flickered his tongue over the tip, then repeating the process to the same reception on the other side. How she trembled as his tongue re-memorized every precious turn, hill and valley of her landscape... her ribcage, her waist, the soft curve of her belly, the rise of her hipbones. He devoured sweet cream and sweeter flesh over her thighs, first outside, then in. Over and behind her knees, her tight calves, her tender feet. Holding one in his hand, he suckled her little toes, laved at her arch, shivering himself as that action gained him the reward of a long, shuddering moan from his lover. She began to struggle against her bonds, her body's imperative to reach out and touch him in return thwarted by the silk at her wrists.
He completed the other foot's turn, then gently set it to the side, spreading her legs to make room for him to crawl between. He reached the apex of her form and bent down, bracing his weight on his elbows and resting his hands on her inner thighs, urging her to open wider for him.
Dipping his head, he paused to inhale this, his very favorite smell... the aroma that stirred him and drew him always toward her, like a moth to the flame. The scent of warmth... of lust and love and life... Buffy's unique womanscent. No matter where they were or what they were doing, he could sift through a billion other olfactory signals and discern that solitary one that identified her unmistakably as his mate.
He was almost loath to add the whipped cream. It seemed wrong, almost sacrilegious, somehow. Gluttonous, when her natural taste was such a heady feast in and of itself. But she had asked for this game, and what his beloved asked for, he could never deny her. He reclaimed the can from where he'd left it near the edge of the bed, and gave it another firm shake. Parting her swollen outer lips between thumb and forefinger, he quickly filled her heated folds with cool cream.
"Angel... yes..." she sighed beneath him, arching her hips up in encouragement that he in no way needed.
He plunged his face into the sweet cloud.
Buffy cried out as his lips and tongue assaulted her aching sex, devouring the whipped cream quickly and leaving her screaming skin defenseless against his gentle onslaught. The tip of his tongue circled the first millimeters of her entrance, teasing her to a whimpering mewl before plunging its entire length inside. He slid his hands under her rear and lifted her closer, sealing his face into her quivering crotch, lips and tongue suckling, plunging, licking and kissing every inch of her until bliss very nearly became agony. One hand wandered up from her behind... a single long, graceful finger slipping into her juices, caressing her inner walls even as his mouth found her clit. Fastening his lips around the throbbing nub, he nursed at it intently, flicking his tongue around and over the tip, driving her to plead for mercy. A second finger joined the first, and soon after, a third, stretching her to the breaking point even as his mouth gorged on the shrieking bundle of nerves that had quickly become the center of her universe under his expert touch.
Angel brought her to the precipice over and over again, but each time she was ready to go over, he would slow his pace, gentle his rhythm, and bring her back, only to do it again. Forever came and went in her mind, but still he denied her that deliverance, until she found herself screaming in supplication... threatening and cajoling, thrusting her hips up from the bed to try and force him to give her what she wanted.
"OhgodAngelpleasepleasepleaseAngelgod!" she begged, certain that her body had reached critical mass, and any moment, her heart and lungs would explode, her overwrought nerves melt down, and her flesh dissolve, leaving nothing but a puddle of this agonizing bliss.
He left off his mouth's activity, eliciting a moan of protest, but kept the easy pace of his fingers inside her.
"Please what?" he murmured.
"Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!" she chanted incoherently, her head thrashing back and forth on the pillows.
He teased her hot, swollen clit with the pad of his thumb -- one sweep, no more, but even that was enough to evoke a yelp from his squirming, arching beloved.
"You have to tell me what you want, Buffy," he teased, "Open your eyes Ionuin. Look at me and tell me what you want..." It was cruel, and he well knew it... but he also knew that her pleasure at the end result would more than make up for his gentle torture.
Another flick of his thumb, and her eyes snapped wide open. He almost came himself at the sight of her passion... her tanned skin flushed red with rapture, her lips parted enticingly, allowing her frantic, gasping breath to escape.
"PleaseIwannacomeIwannacomepleasepleaseletmecomeAngel, Oh, God, PLEASE!" she cried.
Satisfied that she had been tormented enough, he dove back down, clamping his mouth tightly around her nub, sucking and flicking firmly, evenly, increasing the deep stroke of his fingers into her pulsing channel, crooking one digit to caress that tender spot in its roof, and then gently scraped his teeth over her clit.
And with that, Buffy exploded, her body going board rigid beneath him, strong hips arching them both off the bed, and gave a long, ear-shattering cry.
"YYYYYEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSAAAAAANGEELLLLLL!"
He kept hold of her hip, slipped his fingers out and plunged his mouth in their place, devouring the ambrosia of juices pouring from her pulsing center until she begged him to stop.
As he did, and pulled away, he heard the headboard creak, and the stockings tear, and in a moment, she had her hands free, hauling him upward so they were face to face, and proceeded to kiss and suckle her own pleasure from his lips. Her strong legs wrapped around his waist in a crushing grip, and with one fierce thrust of her hips, Angel found himself buried to the hilt inside her tight, still-pulsing heat.
"Buffy... god..." he gasped, pulling her tightly to his chest. "You feel so good. You're so... hot..."
"Yes, baby..." she moaned, silencing him by thrusting her tongue into his mouth, seeking and finding his, circling it... stroking it... sucking it between her lips in imitation of the friction their lower bodies created.
He groaned loudly and drove into her, overwhelmed by the slick, powerful grasping of her muscles around his cock, her little heels digging into the small of his back, her nails gouging deep into his shoulders as she clutched him, urging him on.
And as so often happened when they came together like this, the languid lovemaking shifted, and in an unnoticed moment became less gentle... more primal. Soft sighs and moans, transformed into low grunts and frenzied cries. Angel hitched his hands beneath her thighs and drew her knees up over his shoulders, changing the angle and depth of his thrusts until he could feel himself bumping the mouth of her womb.
But it was never deep enough... he could never get far enough inside her... could never quite burrow down where he so desperately wanted to be, into the very source of her volcanic inferno, but the bestial drive of his body forced him perpetually to try. In one swift, easy motion, he spun Buffy onto her belly, dragging her up onto her hands and knees as he pounded relentlessly into her core.
Buffy arched her back, slamming herself onto him, the same desire propelling her... to take her Angel deep into her cells and keep him there, warm and safe, forever. Maintain this heart-pounding, muscle and nerve-ripping, earth-shattering rapture as her only reality.
"ANGEL! Oh God... YES! Harder! Fuck me!"
Her wanton cries were like gasoline thrown on an already blazing inferno, and Angel wrapped his arm around her, pulling her upward until her damp back was flush with his chest. His hand slipped down her slick belly, one finger swiftly finding her clit once more and stroking it firmly in time with his incisive thrusts.
Her sugared walls immediately clamped around him in response, and she bowed in his embrace, throwing her head back to rest on his shoulder, her throat exposed..
"Buffy," he moaned, sealing his lips around the pulsing artery, teasing the skin with his tongue before returning to devour her mouth one last time.
She keened as his fangs descended, piercing her lower lip, and his cool tongue gently flicked away the tiny drop of blood he drew. Buffy laced her fingers into his hair and urged him back to her thundering pulse.
"Drink me... please..."
His body throbbed in answer to her command. He held her tightly to him, bracing one arm around her heaving chest, his fingers still worrying her supersensitive clit as he sank his teeth into her flesh.
He barely heard her screaming over the roar of her blood in his ears as she came, impaling herself onto him, bucking wildly as he drank, deep and hard. When the thick, sweet taste of her orgasm waned, he withdrew from her neck, focusing once more on the sensations of her body riding his, her fluttering passage pulling at him, milking him with every thrust.
Angel nibbled on the tender shell of her ear, laying his hand flat on her belly to imprison her pelvis as he drove into her.
"Baby..." he gasped into her ear, "Buffy... you feel so good... God...loveyou..."
"Yes! Angel, yes!" she trilled, rising up on her knees, slamming onto him as hard and fast as her supernatural Slayer muscles could manage.
He slipped his fingers back into her sex as he finally lost control, grunting loudly as he spurted his cool seed deep inside of her, his body finally freezing in the rigor of the Little Death that swallowed his consciousness, filling his sight with stars even as Buffy bellowed his name once again and quickly joined him.
The world went black for a moment, and when he regained his senses, he was lying on his back with Buffy pillowed, panting and sweat-soaked, against his chest. He pulled her closer, listening to her heartbeat easing, her breath slowly returning to normal, and planted tender kisses into her damp hair.
"Oh... my... God..." she breathed, completely boneless in his arms.
"Mmm..." he agreed, lulled into sleepy, post-coital bliss.
They lay quietly in one another's embrace, floating in that lazy, languid half-awake silence for a long time, just enjoying the aftermath of a simple act of love that had so long been forbidden them. Even all these years later, as frequently and joyfully as they shared this experience, neither of them seemed to take it for granted.
Angel suspected that he never would, and when he finally Shanshued, he knew he would get to drown in the happiness of learning her all over again as a human man.
But for now... he mostly wanted to sleep.
Buffy perched her chin on his chest and gave him a smile that wrenched his heart. He reached up and gently traced it.
"I'm all sticky," she complained with a wicked glint in her eye. "I think I might need a shower."
He emitted a half-hearted groan of protest. "You're going to kill me, woman!"
His boundless little bundle of energy leapt up from their bed, and reached out her hand.
"You're already dead," she reminded him.
Angel sighed. "Touche," he agreed, and took the proffered hand.
"Plus... we still have strawberries to eat," she added. "Shower, then fruit, then sleep. 'Kay?"
As she led him toward the bathroom, he found himself thinking...
Well...there were definitely worse ways to die.
~Finis~ *G*
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