Four times Angel and Buffy almost fucked and one time they actually did

Four times Angel and Buffy almost fucked and one time they actually did

Four times Angel and Buffy almost fucked...


There is sex in his mouth. She thinks it is the prettiest mouth she’s ever seen and that’s even before he’s kissed her. Other boys have kissed her, but Angel’s no boy. And his is no slobbery, tentative boy’s mouth.

She wants to stop her own mouth- the verbal diarrhea that seems to trickle off her tongue whenever he’s anywhere near. But he’s standing right there, in her bedroom, the moonlight on his cheekbones and all she can think about is his mouth.

Then she hears kiss you. She forgets what she is saying and whispers: “Kiss me?”

She doesn’t even know who makes the first move, but suddenly his hands are in her hair and everything from her mouth down to her toes is a throbbing jumble of electrical wires carrying current to places she never even knew existed until just this moment. His mouth on her mouth makes the moon blush.

She feels so young and so inexperienced and just last night he’d been asleep on the floor beside her bed. And, oh god, what is that feeling?

Later- after he’s gone through the window and her mother has tucked her in (not something she normally does anymore, but this night is special because Buffy screamed and her mom must have felt needed), Buffy touches herself. Her fingers slide through creamy wetness and when she arches up, quickly, into her own hand, it’s no longer Brad Pitt she sees.


He is supposed to remember that she is a girl- not a woman. It takes every ounce of his considerable will not to press her into the wall, to slide his hands up under that mini-dress she’s wearing, hook his thumbs into her moist panties and sink his mouth into the peach juice of her cunt.

But he doesn’t. He stands there and listens to her babble and ticks off the reasons why he should leave, berating himself for still being here when she woke up this morning and then hanging around all day, surrounded by her things: lipstick and perfume and the cross he’d given her. It’s not like he needed her protection from ‘The Three’. Ironically, the real threat here is her.

“I did a lot of thinking today. I really can't be around you because when I am...When I am all I can ever think about is how badly I want to kiss you.”

Whatever Buffy is saying she isn’t saying anymore and before he can stop himself, his hands are in her hair and his mouth is on her mouth and his cock is a stiff weight in his pants.

It’s been so long since he’s kissed someone. Really kissed them and his tongue in her mouth gives Angel the smallest taste of what it would be like to sink the full length of his cock into the silky secret slit between her legs: to breach the delicate membrane that separates innocence from experience.

He can’t help it then, his face changes and Buffy screams.


She’s never told anyone this.

Angel is back. Not Angel at first, but day by day, better, stronger, not a quivering bundle of muscle and instinct. One day he looks at Buffy with eyes so kind that she is compelled to unshackle him.

He rubs his wrists for a moment and she waits, the brown bag containing the cups of blood she’s brought him held carefully in two hands. Two hands, so she has no quick defense when he knocks her over, the bag landing with a soggy ‘plop’ onto the stone floor.

“You smell so good,” Angel whispers into her neck.

At first Buffy is so startled she doesn’t know how to react and then she feels something sticky pooling beside her.

“Ewww,” she says.

Angel lifts his head and she sees the gold glint of his eyes and she feels, for a second, a tremor of fear. Not because she thinks she can’t handle him, but because she thinks she might have to.

He lifts a bloody hand and wipes it against her neck, dragging it down, down. She doesn’t recognize the sound at first, only belatedly realizing it’s the sound of her shirt being ripped open. She struggles to sit, but Angel presses her back down with the heel of his hand; he’s ferociously strong.

He pops the clasp on her bra and frees her breasts and then his hands, sticky with blood, are on her, pulling and twisting, shaping and bruising her.

“Angel,” she says.

He doesn’t reply. He’s mesmerized by her skin, it seems, and she’s equally rapt. Her nipples are tight rosebuds, ready to burst. That feeling is second only to the steady hum of her clit.

“You have to stop,” she says, but her words are weak.

Angel has already left fingerprints down her ribs and he ignores her half-hearted attempt to kick him away. He unsnaps her pants, yanks them down her legs, panties, too, trapping her feet in the tangle of clothing.

“I remember,” he says.

He thumbs her apart, tests her with a finger, two.

“You want me,” he says. He looks at her.

“Yes,” she says. It is pointless to deny it.

“I want you,” he says. He undoes his pants and reaches inside to free his cock.

Strangely, Buffy thinks of Scott: his small hands, his compact, slender frame, the tentative way he touches her, his sexless lips.

She wriggles her ankles, freeing her feet from her pants, lets her legs fall open to receive Angel.

And he is there, poised over her blood-smeared breasts, her aching sex, her need - and then his eyes focus, lose their golden glow and Buffy watches them fill with horror. He is off her, skittering across the floor in an instant.

He fastens the manacles around his own wrists. He will not look at her.

Buffy stands. She looks down at her body, at the swirls of blood where his fingers have been: a strange map of roadways they can never take.


Stretched out under the tree, the fresh dirt marking her mother’s grave just out of view, Angel offers Buffy platitudes culled from a couple centuries worth of living.

You just need some time.

You’re gonna figure this out.

Harmless, innocuous, words meant to offer a modicum of comfort. Then he says: I can stay in town as long as you want me.

The look on her face is so hopeful, so relieved, Angel regrets the words immediately. He can’t take them back and he can’t move away when she leans forward and presses her lips to his.

Her kiss isn’t what he remembers. It’s less girl and more woman. She smells like tears and, faintly, ashes.

His head starts to swim with sensations; he thinks it must be what drowning is like. He feels her hands curl into his shirt and her mouth is a half open door and even though he knows what’s waiting on the other side, he pushes against it just a little.

“Buffy,” he sighs into her mouth.

It’s her name on his lips that makes her stop. She shrugs apologetically. “I’m seriously needy right now.”

He doesn’t mean the words, but he says them anyway: I can handle it.

But he can’t, it seems.

Dawn is coming. He wants to give her something, something that will ease the pain of her mother’s passing.

But there is no comfort to be had for that loss. Angel knows this, although it could be argued that his perspective is slightly different.

“We have a little time,” Angel says. She nods and snuggles against him.


People undervalue death, Angel thinks. Death is what gives life meaning. There’s no way that Buffy will appreciate this sentiment, not now at least. But it’s still true. It’s hard to explain that to mortals because they mostly live for the future, planning for their holidays and retirements and forgetting that those days might never come.

He should know.

There is a part of Angel that wishes he had never come to Sunnydale. And the reason for that is pressed against him, her fingers toying with a button on his shirt. Knowing Buffy has been a catch-22: she has given his life meaning and she has made his life almost impossible to bear.

He lifts his hand to her hair and when he feels the silken strands slide through his fingers, a bolt of pure memory shoots through his veins, a rush of feeling not unlike that first helpless gulp of human blood.

“Are you okay?” Buffy asks. She tilts her head to get, what Angel assumes is, a great view of his chin.

Angel gives a small nod. “I wish I could do something or say something.”

“You are doing something,” Buffy says. “And there’s nothing to say.”

Angel sighs and it’s as if the motion propels Buffy off his chest. Suddenly she is sitting, her eyes luminous.

“Sometimes things just happen,” she says seriously. “I know that, Angel.”

Christ, she’s beautiful.

Over her shoulder he can see the sky lightening. Dawn is creeping towards them, lapping up the dew as it comes.

He just needs…

He just wants…

Angel leans forward and kisses her. And in that kiss he tells her everything he can’t say with words. He tries to give her what his body was built for, but can no longer safely offer.

When they part, it is no longer safe for him to stay.

Either Buffy or the sun will burn him alive.


Outside, after Caleb has been eviscerated, Angel tries to keep a tight reign on his emotions. Usually this is an easy enough task: decades of practice masking his true feelings. Only Buffy has ever been able to push past the façade and nothing, it seems, has changed.

First she admits her feelings for Spike.

Then she announces that Spike has a soul. Are they selling those at the 7-Eleven now?

Then she makes some ridiculous speech about baking cookies.

At this point, Angel gives up. Whatever he felt about Buffy one year ago, five…it’s still there, as relevant as a heart pumping blood.

And - he can’t help a little internal smirking at the thought- she clearly feels the same way about him. Lips don’t lie.

Neither does his cock- which is only just beginning to relax its attentive posturing.

Right now, though, Buffy needs to concentrate on what lies ahead and Angel needs to leave so she can do it without distraction. As always, it is lose-lose, although Angel is hopeful. He’s learned that hope is a precious commodity in this life and he isn’t about to let it go easily.

He is just about to his car when he hears his name.

There she is; her face heartbreakingly young.


“I just didn’t want you to think…”

He retraces his steps, and puts his hand on her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he says.

She nods. But it’s not okay; he can see that.

He pulls her close and feels her body relax into his in a way that is utterly familiar.

“I have something I want to give you,” she says.

Angel wants to tell her that her gift is unnecessary. He already has the only gift he has ever needed or wanted from her: her love.

She pulls away from his embrace and pushes him back. His heels hit a tombstone. At first he isn’t sure what she is doing: her hands at his belt buckle, zipper. She pushes again and he sits, bare ass on the cool marble and she is on her knees.


“Buffy,” he protests.

“Shhh,” she says.

There is something about the feeling of a warm mouth on a cock that can not be duplicated. Something about the wet heat and the tongue and the motion that reduces a man to quivering jelly- even Angel is unable to resist its lure. He locks his arms beside him and watches Buffy’s golden head bob on his lap.

His cock is a steel rod in her mouth and she is swallowing him, licking him, tonguing him and rolling his balls in her fingers as though she has spent her entire life practicing this one act. He can’t bear it. He wants to come. He wants to stay like this forever…and only he knows what a fucking long time that actually is.

He slides one hand into her hair and palms the back of her head, holding her still.

Buffy stops moving. She hums a little and the vibrations travel down the length of his shaft and straight up his spine.

He lets go of her head and she moves again, slow, slow and he braces his arms and lifts his hips, spilling into her mouth like a stupid school boy.

She swallows the ejaculate, licking him clean with a careful tongue.

He doesn’t know what to say. He is overwhelmed. Shocked. Ashamed.

“Chalk it up to impending doom,” Buffy says.

Angel pushes off the tombstone and pulls up his pants.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t trust his voice. Besides, he needs to save his tongue.

He can see in Buffy’s eyes that she knows what’s coming. She’s not a kid anymore. She’s had experiences- most of which he’d rather not think about.

What he wants is to bite into the fragrant flesh of her cunt and, clearly, the rules tonight don’t prohibit it.

So he drops to his knees and unfastens Buffy’s pants and makes her step out of them. He scans the cemetery and spots what he needs- a long, flat tombstone, wide enough for Buffy to lie down on: an altar at which he will kneel and worship.

He picks her up and drapes her on the stone, ass at the edge, legs on either side and – just like that - she’s open to him. Beautiful, her hidden flesh vulnerable and blushing. He leans forward, kissing the flat of her belly, just above her pubic hair. His nostrils flare; she smells like a woman: copper and soap and musk.

She lifts her hips a little, impatient. Buffy is all grown up.

He drops his mouth lower, presses his lips to her mons; lower still, breath against her clit, lower, his tongue, flattened and wet against the exposed flesh normally hidden from view. She shivers.

He knows how to do this, has been known to do it for hours – delighting dead paramours endlessly, torturing live ones until they are mindless and boneless and so swollen that when he bites into them they gush into his mouth, pumping blood with each wave of their orgasm.

That is not his goal here.

What he wants is to create a masterpiece. He wants Buffy to know how he feels.

Sometimes he has a hard time saying it with words but this, this he knows how to do.

He will create a symphony with his mouth and later, after the battle is over, he will remember the sound of her voice as she comes and it will sustain him.


And one time they actually did…

It’s not possible that she wants to fuck again, but she does. Every single inch of her has been touched or scratched or pinched or licked or bitten or kissed. Even the rasp of silk sheets against her skin is too much, not enough. Her cunt is overripe, slipperyslick. Her nipples are raw, erect, hyper-sensitive.

First he is gentle.

Then he isn’t.

And just when she thinks it is impossible to go higher, Angel flips her over, hauls her up with a thick forearm under her belly and fucks her up the ass.

There is something in the act, something foreign and slightly naughty that ratchets up Buffy’s libido. Angel fingers slide against her clit with every powerful thrust and when Buffy comes, she swears she sees God.

(Years later, when Spike instigates this very act, Buffy will seem unwilling: she will protest and claim the act is vile. She’ll give in eventually and when Spike enters her she’ll have a thrilling rush of memory- vague but real - and she’ll wonder, for days after, why the sensation was somehow familiar. She’s amenable every time Spike wants to do it again.)

Finally she is exhausted. Angel’s arms around her anchor her to the bed, this room, earth.

“I’m so sleepy,” she says. “But I still want…”

She can hear the laughter in Angel’s voice. “What? You couldn’t possibly. Not that I wouldn’t…”

There isn’t anything Buffy wants more than this: to be safe in Angel’s arms, in his bed. To be a girl in love with a boy.

She allows herself to believe, just for a moment, that this is her life.


Angel believes that this will end badly.

And he will be right.


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