Work Text:
There’s a pull deep within her gut. It’s distinctive like the throb of her ovaries or the rumble of her stomach. This originates from her essence and tugs at her belly button, flooding her system with adrenaline. She frowns into the feeling, her breath ceasing as she scans the empty cemetery.
He steps out of the darkness slowly and the shadows shift and melt into his silhouette. He is impossibly tall, broad.
The heat of his gaze penetrates her and her tension shifts immediately. Her stomach liquefies, and with each step she can feel her skin tighten and her nerves dance.
She wonders if that’s why he always seems to move in slow motion, because by the time he finally reaches her, she is practically shaking with the need to tastehimtouchhim.
He says her name when she’s close enough to hear, a reverent statement that he always sounds surprised to make.
“Angel.” Her automatic response. Relief and excitement.
“I thought you might be here,” he says softly.
“You thought right.”
She threads their fingers together, shifting their positions so their shoulders brush as they walk. Her heartbeat accelerates uncontrollably, her palm dampening within his grasp.
“It’s been quiet. I did a sweep earlier.”
“I know, third night in a row with nothing. They sure know how to make a girl feel useless.”
“You should be resting. It’s not often you get the night off.” His eyebrows are knotted in a frown, his eyes heavy. He is concerned, seemingly oblivious to her internal struggle.
Buffy dismisses his concern with a shrug.“I tried. Got bored.”
No need to tell him that she hadn’t been hunting at all, just looking for him. She tugs his hand and leads him to the side of a mausoleum, “So I was thinking--“
Their eyes touch as she gracefully leans her back against the smooth stone. Before she can finish her sentence he’s kissing her, cool lips brushing against hers softly, teasingly.
His fingers follow the contours of her face. The curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, the indentation between her chin and bottom lip.
“Angel,” she whines, twisting in his grasp.
He continues his exploration at a leisurely pace. His hands follow the swell of her hips to the curve of her waist and across the tightness of her stomach.
She uses her strength to pull his face into hers firmly and she bites at his bottom lip before sinking her tongue into his mouth.
She arches against him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing bodily into him. Unconsciously she rubs her nipples against his chest. Her hips rock her center into his thigh.
His body trembles against her, a silent growl rolling from his stomach to his chest.
She can feel her response, the moisture dampening her panties.
She thinks she should always know when it starts and sometimes she does. Sometimes it’s so sudden that it hurts. Sharp pain like glass shards in the pit of her stomach, and before she can frown completely or fold her hand over her abdomen she can tell that her thighs are slippery.
Sometimes it’s slower, from gentle caresses and slow kisses, and sometimes she thinks that she was never un-aroused, because all he has to do is look at her, or say her name, and she’s wet.
She’s sixteen, so the stirrings of these feelings are pretty much constant, but Angel is Angel. He’s older-- so much older, she gets wet imagining all the things he probably knows how to do. And when he’s touching her it’s so much more because she wants him to do all of those things to her, and she wants to practice some particular things on him.
Still, even though she’s sixteen, she’s not Sunnydale sixteen, she’s L.A sixteen. Girls have been sharing their sex stories since she can remember, and they didn’t hang out in the wholesome environment of home; they had money and resources, so those movies they watched, the dirty magazines they looked at, and even those cute boys they made out with, all left their mark. She is no longer naive enough to be unsure of what she wants.
So at times like this, when his cool fingers are sliding wetly inside of her, and his lipstongueteeth are working her neck, and she can run her hand over his chest and stomach, trace the line of his pelvic bone and squeeze the bulge in his pants, she pictures those things. The sounds of wet suction and heated flesh, panting and moaning, jets of fluid, a blur of limbs in an array of positions, and she seriously wonders about slayer flexibility and vampire stamina.
She pushes into him harder, and moans loudly when the fingers dipping inside of her slip deeper. She wants his teeth to nip more insistently, his fingers to pump harder, faster, she wants him to mark her, claim her.
Something is uncoiling inside of her and there’s a sob stuck in her throat. She is lost inside of him and when she is sure she is ready for him inside of her, it’s sobering to remember they’re standing in a graveyard.
But then he’s hitting some important spots, groaning her name, and her body tightens up, her thighs harden, and she’s trembling in his grasp, flooding his hand with wetness.
She doesn’t want it to stop. She wants to go somewhere private, and do so much more.
She suddenly understands why he hasn’t taken her home lately. She remembers what happened last time, the hard softness of his bare skin, the amount of pressure she had to exert to make him shudder and moan. The supernatural strength it took to hold her down when he flipped them and splayed her center with the thickness of his tongue… she remembers that he made her come three times, and she still wanted.
They sink to the ground, and he shifts so her back is resting against his chest. She can feel his erection pressing into her back, and her stomach jumps. His lips --warm from hers-- press against the side of her neck, and the way he hovers lets her feel the cool exhale of breath against her skin, is his acknowledgement.
“Walk me home?” She asks breathlessly.
“Not tonight, sweetheart.”
But soon.
~Fin