He’d grown tired of being a gentleman several weeks ago. Shit, he’d never been a gentleman, what was the point of glossing it over? They’d had a month of polite dates, dinners at small cafes, walks along the beach, chaste kisses with only the moon to illuminate her face.

Every night he’d go home with a hard-on that could saw through wood. And even after jacking off in the shower, he was still hard. He wasn’t sure how long he was supposed to wait; he felt as though he’d been waiting all his life.

For this.

For her.

He wasn’t a moron. He understood the accumulated hurts that simmered below Buffy’s skin: the deaths of those she’d loved, the loss of friendships and innocence, the endless fight against evil. But the Hellmouth had been closed for over a year and there were dozens of Slayers to help fight the good fight. She was no longer alone. And he was only human…in a manner of speaking.

The Powers had told him that his soul was anchored and that this was the first phase on his journey to a more permanent humanity. He’d told her almost immediately and her reaction was one of joy. But he’d expected a more tangible sign of her relief and excitement; instead she had drifted away from him. And then drifted back. It was making his head ache, not to mention other parts of his anatomy.

Angel adjusted the dinner plate on the dining room table and returned to the kitchen to turn the oven on.

Tonight there’d be no more waiting.


Buffy pulled her hair back off her face and regarded herself in the mirror. Her stomach was chasing its tail, or intestines, inside of her and she couldn’t remember ever having been so nervous.

She dropped her hair and it fell to her shoulders. The last month had been a real test of her willpower. Ever since Angel had told her that his soul was anchored, she could think of nothing but him. Him naked. Him pressed against her. In her.

“Stop!” she whispered to the reflection staring back at her.

He’d been a marvel of self-restraint. They’d go out in the evening and walk the streets, occasionally picking off a stray vampire, careful not to touch until he’d delivered her safely back to her door. Then, just a kiss; his lips barely brushing hers, his eyes drifting shut, his fingers resting against her cheeks.

Inside, her heart pounding so hard she could actually count the beats, she’d shove her fingers into her pants, down through the slick center of her, until she came, moaning his name.

Tonight things had to change. She couldn’t wait a single minute more.


He handed her a glass of wine and went back to stirring the pot on the stove. It seemed like a normal couple-y thing to do, except that he and Buffy weren’t exactly a couple. More than two centuries of living had taught Angel that women liked to know where they stood; they wanted an emotional commitment. He wanted to believe that Buffy knew how he felt, but he wanted to be sure.

He turned back to her. She was leaning against the counter, the wine glass cupped in her small hand, eyeing him suspiciously.


“It’s just you being all domestic-like is wigging me out,” she said.

He smiled. It was a wicked smile.

“I’m hungry. Aren’t you hungry?”

Buffy eyed him over the top of her wine glass. His voice was like glycerine.


“I could eat,” she said.

Angel turned back to the stove, more to hide his obvious erection than because he had anything to do. He reached for the dial and turned the knob to its lowest setting. Dinner could wait. Dinner had no choice.

“I’m hungry,” he said, turning back to face Buffy, “but not for food.”

He took a step forward, his feet bare on the kitchen tiles. Two more steps and he had her pinned between him and the kitchen counter. He extracted the wine glass and set it on the counter and then he kissed her.

Her mouth trembled under his, but only for a moment, before she granted him access, swept into his mouth with her tongue, clutched at his biceps and shoulders like a woman drowning and looking for a life-line.

“There you are,” she whispered when he finally pulled away.

“I was about to say the same thing,” he said, smiling.

He took her hand and pulled her out of the kitchen, away from the smells of tomato and onion, and down the hall to his bedroom. She’d never been here and she balked, just slightly, when she saw the huge four-poster bed.


“No,” he said. “I’m not waiting any longer. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be waiting for.”

Buffy opened her mouth to speak and Angel placed his finger against her lips. Then he traced his finger over her chin, down her throat, into the little hollow cupped by her clavicle.

“I just want…”

“What?” Buffy whispered.

“Not to wait anymore. To put everything behind us and start over somehow. To make you mine again.”

“I want that, too,” Buffy said.

“Take your clothes off then,” Angel said.


“Don’t ask questions, Buffy. Just take them off.”

Buffy reached for the buttons on her blouse and began to slip them, one by one, from their holes. When she’d finished, she took off her blouse and then reached behind to unclasp her bra. Jeans and panties next. Her feet were already bare.

Angel watched her, watched each creamy inch of skin as it revealed itself to his hungry eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you.”

He stepped forward and swept her into his arms, depositing her on his bed.

“Roll over,” he said. His voice was calm, quiet but the request was obviously not meant to be questioned.

Buffy rolled over, twisting her head to look back at him. She watched as he pulled his sweater over his head, revealing a wall of pale chest. He unfastened his belt and pulled it through the loops, unzipped his pants and dropped them and his underwear to the floor. His cock stretched upwards, lethal-looking.

Angel grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed, easing it under Buffy’s hips. Her ass was now displayed attractively in front of him and he drifted a hand over each pale cheek, down the center, parting her legs just enough to allow him access to her moist crotch.

Without warning, he smacked her.



He’d never been much of a spanker,(whips were more his thing) but her ass was so inviting, so innocent and, frankly, he was tired of being good.

He hit her again. Again. Each smack harder than the last; his fingerprints, first distinct and separate, finally a red blotch against her white skin. And he noticed something else: instead of cringing, Buffy would move just a little bit, arching into each slap as if it were a caress. And he could smell her, the wet, musky smell of moss and sex.

He leaned forward, close to her ear.

“What do you want, Buffy?”


“You have to tell me what you want.”

Buffy sighed as Angel’s fingers slid against her slippery clit.

“Be specific.”

“Pinch me.”

Angel smiled. He moved his fingers and pinched her, gently, at the swell of her hip.

“No,” Buffy moaned. “Not there.”

“Tell me,” Angel said.

“My clit,” she said. “Pinch my clit.”

“I can do better than that.”

Angel pulled the pillow out from underneath her and rolled her over onto her back. He pulled her forward, cupping his hands under her tender ass and lifting her up to his mouth. One careful lick and then he settled his mouth against her distended nub, nuzzled closer, plucking at her with his teeth. She came almost instantly, trying to pull away from him but getting nowhere.

“Where do we go from here?” he asked.

“I just want to…”

“What? Recuperate? Not a chance, baby.”

He moved up, settling his fingers on her soft breasts, tweaking her nipples skillfully.



“You need to be in me. Right. Now.”

Buffy wrapped her legs around Angel’s lean hips and tilted her pelvis forward, inviting him with her body and her eyes and her heart. He needed no further invitation; he slid into her, pushing until he felt her body resist and then pulling back.


She looked up at him.

“I need to be deeper.”

She nodded.

Angel slid out of her and rolled her over, pulling her up onto all fours.

“This isn’t romantic, but it’s what I need,” he said, pushing her forward so that her breasts hit the covers and her behind was vulnerable. He slid into her, one smooth, thick thrust before beginning a punishing rhythm. His hands at her hips, pulling her back to meet him, and then using her breasts as leverage until he felt himself begin to fly.

“Touch yourself,” he said. “Do it. Now.”

And then she was flying, too.


“We should wait a long time before we do that again,” Buffy said.

Angel turned to her with a wicked gleam in his eye.

“How long do you think you’ll be able to last?” He said.

Buffy reached down to stroke Angel’s cock, not even remotely surprised when it stiffened against her fingers.

“Not long at all.”

The End

Story Index

Notes:Written for Chloe Sarai who wanted Angel to stop being a passive punk and actually tell Buffy what he wants. Talking dirty. Biting. Smacking that ass. *you said kink* Dom-Angel. But don’t make Buffy all passive either.

Her Restrictions were: Cordelia, Faith, or Spike. No Kubake. No mean sex...like Angel being too rough with her, knowing she won’t get pleasure.

The Set-up: I’m just gonna pretend that the curse isn’t an issue (it’s anchored, or whatever), that this story takes place at some point in the future and it’s only about sex.