Author: Maren
Pairing: B/A
Rating: Adult
Summary: It's too early in the reunion for company.
Author Note: This is PWP, straight-up birthday porn written for a2zmom. Very much unbeta'd. Read at your own risk and feel free to point out typos :)


It’s only been a few days and they’re not anywhere close to slaking the lust, but they’re stuck here for the night in a room barely bigger than a closet. And they have company, Faith and Gunn, who were more than welcome when they were fighting for their lives just a couple of hours ago but now there’s a big part of Buffy that wants to scream at both of them to find somewhere else to hide. Unfortunately that’s not an option and anyway, she can already hear Faith lightly snoring in that way she does just before she drops into a deep, soundless sleep. They’re all so exhausted, the way they always are in the days and nights before the biggest apocalyptic battles and Buffy should be happy that they’re safe enough to close their eyes for a few hours.

Buffy is not happy. Angel is spooned against her back, rock solid and still as a. . . rock, and even as good as it feels to have him at her back, literally this time after years of forced separation, she craves more. She knows she should close her eyes and catch some precious sleep but every time her eyelids begin a descent she’s flooded with images of the past few days, blending together as he fucks her into a wall and she fucks him into a mattress and then there were the hours of making love at such a slow-burn that Buffy thought she might turn into ash and crumble away. . . And she wants that again, wants it now, wants Angel with the force of years of suppressed desire exploding in her brain, making her heart pound a little too fast, her belly feel a little knotted, her clit throb and her nipples tighten until they’re chafing against the thin cotton of her shirt and she wishes she’d worn a bra after all.

Shifting, she scans the tiny space and makes out the shape of Gunn, sprawled on his back in front of the door with a sharp axe within easy reach of his fingertips and it looks a little dangerous, a lot dangerous, actually, but she’s seen what Gunn can do with that axe and Buffy’s glad he’s got it with him. Faith is not even five feet away from Buffy, lying on her stomach with her head pillowed on her wadded up jean jacket and one of the blankets they’d found slung low over her hips. Her face is turned toward the wall but even if she were staring straight at her, Buffy doubts she’d be able to make out Faith’s features in the dark.

And then there’s Angel, who is right there behind her as calm and collected as ever as far as Buffy can tell and it pisses her off a little that she’s lying here in the dark craving him and he’s sleeping. It’s not fair, that he can just sleep when her body is practically screaming to be touched and stroked, just from lying close to him on a scratchy carpeted floor.

She’s scowling into the dark, nearly ready to get up, pick her way through the sprawled bodies of her companions, and try her luck with the contingent of demons who can’t be that far from their door when she feels Angel move behind her. One hand finds the gap between her pants and her shirt, his fingers splaying across the bared skin of her stomach as his palm rests over her navel. Buffy bites back a gasp as he pulls her slowly back against him, her backside making contact with an unmistakable hardness that belies her assumption of indifference a second before her back nestles against his broad chest.

His hand roams up her stomach, flicking over the slight indentation of her ribs until he’s brushing over her aching breast, so light, too light and she whimpers to let him know she needs more.

“Shhhh,” he whispers against her ear and Buffy remembers the others in the room, realizes that he’s going to touch her while Faith and Gunn are only feet away and she realizes she doesn’t care, not if pushing him away means she won’t be able to feel the things only he has ever been able to make her feel. She nods, using her hand to guide him instead of her voice because she thinks maybe they can get away with this if they are very, very quiet.

She runs her hand over his; pressing down until he’s cupping her with something closer to the pressure she wants. God she loves his hands, his fingers, the way they’re so big and strong, the way they can be gentle and reverent in one second and hard and punishing in the next. At the moment they are gentler than she wants and she rocks back against him, rubs her ass against his cock and waits for the answering squeeze on her breast.

She isn’t disappointed. Angel crushes her breast in his palm, flicking over the already straining nipple with firm, insistent strokes that have Buffy trying to control the volume of her breathing as she watches Faith’s body for any sign of movement. There’s nothing so when Angel moves his hand to help her silently pull her shirt over her head, Buffy lets him, then unbuttons her pants and quietly inches down the zipper. Angel sweeps his hand down her naked torso and peels down her pants and panties, helping her shift and shimmy as quietly as possible until they’re lying in a rumpled pile at her feet and she’s completely bare beneath their blanket. His clothes come off more quickly, more quietly and Buffy briefly wonders how he does it. Then his body is pressing against hers again, skin to skin, and she stops thinking about anything but the way this feels.

His cock is hard and heavy, fitting in the cleft of her bottom and when she arches back against him she can feel a trace of wetness on the small of her back that tells her he is as ready as she is and she’s so damned relieved because Faith or Gunn could wake up at any moment and Buffy is pretty sure she’d die of frustration if she can’t have him inside her, now.

Angel’s thumb rolls over her nipple until she’s squirming restlessly, her hand reaching up to guide him away this time as she pulls his hand to her mouth and sucks his thumb between her lips, flicking it with her tongue with movements identical to the ones she’d used when it was his cock in her mouth. He sucks in a breath and thrusts against her, not oblivious to her reenactment. Then Buffy is pushing down on his hand, his thumb leaving a wet trail over her chin and neck as she scrapes it down her body and pushes it toward the liquid heat of her cunt.

When he curls his hand over her mound, she lets go, letting him direct her pleasure and that’s never a bad decision, not with Angel anyway. He cups her with firm pressure, the palm of his hand rubbing against her already distended clit and Buffy bites down on her lip to stifle the gasp of pleasure his touch brings, stifled gasp turning to stifled moan as he runs a finger over her lips before pushing inside and stroking her inner walls. His thumb settles on her clit and she bucks against the pressure, back and forth until he cups her again and pulls back, calming her with wet, silent kisses pressed to her shoulder as he tilts her hips and adjusts his position.

The feeling of his cock sliding into her, so slow, inch by inch, pulling out and rocking forward, stretching her, filling her a little more with each forward movement and when he’s all the way inside, the fingers that return to her clit moving with each off-thrust so that there’s always friction. Buffy feels the ache build, presses down and back, not able to stop the low breathy moan at his invasion but she thinks it was quiet enough and he doesn’t stop so nothing else really matters anyway.

Buffy is still sore from the morning’s activities (hands held over his head, taking him deep inside as they locked gazes, coming with his teeth around her nipple and ending up on her back with her knees almost touching her shoulders as he thrust into her so deep she thought she’d never stop rippling. . . ) but when Angel moves his hand away from her long enough to grab her thigh and bend her leg over his, she welcomes the pleasurable pain. Angel groans into her hair at the new sensations, the slight change in position letting him in deeper, giving him the freedom to thrust a little harder so that he’s brushing the mouth of her womb with every stroke and god it’s too much and it’s not enough and the tightness is building until Buffy knows she’s seconds away from splitting into a million pieces.

And she’s not so much a screamer, but she’s not quiet when she comes either so it’s a relief when the arm that’s pillowing her head shifts and Angel’s hand covers her mouth. Not having to worry about waking the room’s other occupants, Buffy bites down on the fleshy inside of Angel’s middle finger, shivers at the way he hisses into her ear and thrusts just a little deeper, and lets go of the last shred of her control. The fingers on her clit never stop moving, hard and insistent just like his cock deep inside her, as her womb clenches and she contracts around him, a rhythmic tightening that makes her moan into his hand as she comes, every muscle, every tissue in her body taught and throbbing in waves of intense pleasure for infinitesimal seconds.

She’s vaguely aware that Angel follows her over the precipice, his hands tightening over her cunt and her mouth so tight that it’s hard to breathe but it doesn’t matter, because Buffy’s not breathing so much as emptying her lungs into his hand in one, long moan as he empties into her with one last, hard thrust of his hips. He has his mouth pressed into the back of her sweat-dampened neck and Buffy can feel his groan of release reverberate down her spine but she can’t hear it, can only hear the blood rushing in her ears as the pleasure crashes through her.

Angel’s hands relax just before the critical moment where she’ll need to breathe or pass out and Buffy opens her mouth enough to let the abused flesh of his finger out from between her teeth. As Buffy’s hearing slowly returns, the throbbing in her ears gives way to the sound of her breath panting in and out and she tries to force herself to breathe slower, quieter, afraid that she’ll wake Faith and Gunn. Angel is nuzzling the back of her neck, and he smoothes his hand over the still-quivering flesh of her belly, like she’s a thoroughbred that needs soothing after a hard-fought race and if that’s really what he’s thinking he’s not that far off the mark. She feels alive, every nerve ending still strumming with awareness, the lightweight blanket that covers them too confining, too oppressive against her sweat-slicked skin. Buffy wants to throw off the blanket and let the cooler air of the room waft over her and dry her off but she can’t because they aren’t alone.

Angel’s hand trails from her stomach up to her hip and then slips down her damp thigh until he reaches the knee that’s bent and wrapped over his thigh. He gently lifts her leg and shifts it forward so that it’s resting atop her other leg, the soreness in her cunt making itself known once again as her hips shift, but it’s a good pain, one that Buffy welcomes, a pain that she’d be happy to bear for the rest of her life. The hand returns to her hip and she nestles back into Angel’s muscled chest, knowing that the heat his body has borrowed from hers will fade and he’ll cool her down in turn.

Buffy finally feels languid, sleepy, ready to close her eyes and grab a few hours rest before another of the big battles that has defined her life over the past decade. She turns her head and gives Angel a lazy, satisfied smile as he looks down at her with eyes that are almost darker than the night around them. He smiles back and leans in to kiss her, the weight of his lips against hers almost as delicious as everything that came before and Buffy suddenly forgets her fatigue as she wishes she could spend the rest of the night pulling at his lips with teeth and tongue as they rock together.

But they’ve already pushed their luck and she sighs against his lips, murmuring a silent I love you before turning her head back to lay pillowed on his bicep. Buffy closes her eyes and she’s so sated, so tired that she might have fallen asleep in seconds if she weren’t suddenly pulled back into full consciousness by a grunt coming from the lump on the floor that was supposed to be a deeply-sleeping Faith.

“Fuck me, that was hot. Now what the hell am I supposed to do?”

Faith’s voice is a throaty whine that cuts through the black shadows of the room like a shard of bright light, and Buffy winces, her breath catching as she flushes with hot embarrassment and hopes to God that at least Gunn’s still asleep.

Gunn’s answering voice, deep and husky even as he tries for a joking tone, dashes her hopes.

"I'm kinda surprised you need help figurin' that one out on your own, Faith. I can help, if you want."



| Fiction Index | Home Page | Back |