The Fine Art of Making Gingerbread

Pairing: B/A
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Well, it was supposed to be pure Fluff, but it took a wrong turn down the lane to Smut. Not that I'm sure anyone will complain ;)
Summary: Buffy and Angel make gingerbread. Who knew baking could be so much fun?

The Fine Art of Making Gingerbread

Ornaments in shades of red, silver and purple dangle from the tree, tiny white lights twinkling, reflected in silver icicles that drip from the branches. No angel on top--too trite, Buffy had decided, and he had smirked--just a glittering silver star shimmering mellow white light down upon the room. The air is filled with the mingled scents of gingerbread and chocolate, and he can hear Buffy bustling in the kitchen, scooping and stirring and murmuring to herself. He sits in the overstuffed chair by the fireplace and smiles, sips his coffee and adds another log to the fire. She's really going all out this year, and he's enjoying every second of it. Hell, he's enjoying just being able to look at her any time he feels like it. Almost six months since the Shanshu, and this is a life he'd never imagined for himself. And it's all the more welcome for that reason.

A disappointed half-moan/half-wail drifts from the kitchen, and Angel is on his feet. This is pretty much the only kind of rescuing he gets to do, these days, and he wouldn't miss it for the world.

"These cookies don't taste very gingerbread-y," Buffy says as he enters the kitchen, looking at him with anxious eyes. She holds forth a tiny, headless, cookie body with all the conviction of a jury who is sure the defendant is guilty, her lovely face smeared and smudged with various baking goods.

She's still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, standing there in that tiny little blue silk robe--she's not dressed for baking at all-- and suddenly, he's not interested in tasting anything. Not of the baked variety, anyway.

She waves the beheaded cookie in front of his face again, frowning. "Here. Taste."

He takes it and bites off an arm, musing as he chews.

"How much molasses did you use?"

"One cup."

"Try an extra quarter cup in the next batch. You really need Sorghum, but we don’t have any of that..." he trails off, and Buffy's already on the move, pouring sugar and spooning butter into a bowl.

"Did you cream the sugar and the butter last time?" he asks, a thought striking him.

"How do you cream butter?" she asks, turning to look at him over her shoulder with a slight frown.

He watches her for a moment, the shimmer and shine of dark and light blue as silk clings and slips over the curves of her body. Slowly, he walks up behind her, gently pulls her close to him, silk and warmth against the bare skin of his chest. He puts his hands on her shoulders, leaning close to breath her in deep, and runs his fingers down the length of her arms.

"Like this," he says, voice soft and warm against her ear, and twining fingers together, he lifts her hands with his, moving them.

She follows his lead, slowly moving to match his motions and meet his rhythm.

"Like this?" she asks, her voice shaky and a little breathless. He presses closer, molding his body against hers.

"That's good," he whispers back, letting one of her hands go. His fingers trace slow, light trails up the length of her arm, teasing goose bumps up to the line of her shoulder. Laying his palm flat against her shoulder blade, he whispers low words of encouragement, hand slowly sliding down and around, playing along the slight ridge of her ribcage, following down and along the line of her form, inward to the dip of her waist.

Her hands falter and he squeezes her waist, leaning down so close that his lips brush against her ear as he speaks.

"Don't stop. Keep moving."

Breathing hard, tiny tremors of desire shivering through her, she picks up the rhythm again.

"Just like that," he whispers, lips teasing, breath warm as he lets it escape slowly along the curve of her ear. "Good. Good girl." His other hand leaves hers, lighting upon her waist, and his fingers flex. So strong and delicate all at once, sleek muscle beneath creamy softness, and he teases lower, fingers catching in the hollow of her hips. She gasps just a little, an escape of air that conveys nothing of the trembling in her body as he digs in with his fingers, pulling the cradle of her hips up and pressing her ass against him.

She almost loses the rhythm of her hands again as he begins to slide against her, rocking her hips slowly forward and back, meeting her with slow, firm, upward thrusts.

"Keep moving."

He's hard as a rock and his cock fits perfectly between the firm globes of her ass. God, she's like silken steel, and the thin material of his pajama pants doesn't do much to lessen the feel of her, flannel rubbing against skin with delicious friction as he moves. He deepens the grip of his right hand, fingers kneading tiny circles against the edge of her inner hip bone, and runs his left hand around her body, slipping inside the edge of her robe.

She's bare, hot and slick already, and he traces the outline of her soft inner lips, never ceasing his slow rhythm, cock sliding between the curve of her ass.

"That's my good girl. Wet already."

She whimpers and throws her head back against him, baring her throat, and he lowers his head to taste salty-sweet skin. Her hands rise to touch him, her hand brushing his cheek, and he pulls his hand out from under her robe, grabbing her around the wrist and guiding her back to the bowl.

"You're not done, yet." He can't quite keep the smile from his voice, but she doesn't seem to notice.

Instead, she moans, hands taking up their work again, and he holds her tight against him with one hand, free hand caressing her breast until her nipples stand out, aching and hard. He slides his fingers over the silk, letting its softness glide against taut skin, kneading one tiny bud with increasing pressure as he rocks against her.

"Oh God... Angel, I can't..." she breathes. "Please..."

She whimpers again, and he draws back to look at her. Her eyes are closed, skin flushed a deep pink, breasts rising and falling with heavy gasps. God, she's so fucking hot, and as much as he knows they're both enjoying this game, he doesn't think he can take it much longer.

His hand trails from her breast, following the robe down to where it parts below her waist. She's dripping wet, skin so hot and full of need.

"So wet." Hot breath given against the hollow of her throat. He kisses his way up her neck, tongue languidly tracing the line from jaw to ear. "Good girl, so hot and wet for me," he whispers, each word punctuated by a roll of his hips. Fingers make tiny, concentric motions against thin, heated skin, driving her closer and closer to the edge, and he releases her hip just long enough to move his pajamas out of the way. Pushing up the slippery silk, he grabs her hips with both hands, lifting and thrusting with one smooth motion as he enters her.

"Oh, God," she sighs, shuddering against him.

He braces her belly against the counter, lifting his hips under her for support as he holds her up off the floor, and God, she feels like warm velvet, muscles clenching around his cock as he begins to move. Pretty pink fingernails, so delicate and small, dig into Formica as her fingers grip the edge of the counter. Using her arms to pull her body, she thrusts harder against him, meeting him halfway with a sudden, brief stop and a gasp of pleasure before they’re moving apart again.

"God, Buffy. Good. So good," he murmurs. The smell of sex and gingerbread and the feel of slick muscles holding him tight, the ripple and play of muscles through her upper back as she moves against him, and speech is leaving him, syllables spilling in a molten flow as she tightens around him, hips bucking with frantic rhythm.

She cries out and he can feel her twist and shudder against him like a wild thing, taut muscles convulsing around his cock as he spasms. She wants to keep moving and he wants to hold her still and they meet somewhere in the middle, sweating and writhing as pleasure crests, carrying them along with its ebb and flow.

When it passes, he slides from her and sets her gently on the floor, turning her to look at him. Her face still glowing with bliss, she smiles and leans up to kiss him.

"More?" she asks, eyes eager, smile beaming.

"What about the butter?" he asks with a grin.

"What butter?" she quips, eyes wide and innocent, and he can’t help but laugh as he pulls her into his arms.

He kisses her forehead and hugs her tight. "Your wish is my command."

He sweeps her up into his arms and carries her to the bedroom, and it's different this time, slow and languid, tender and loving, and hours and hours and hours...

Later, curled naked upon the couch in a tangle of limbs and fleece blankets, they sip hot chocolate and nibble gingerbread, talking about happy times past and future until the fire dies out at last.

Red embers glow in the fireplace, casting the room in a dim crimson light, and she sleeps with her head nestled against his chest, blond hair spilling out and over her face. He reaches down to smooth it back, his own eyes heavy, his mind at peace and his body warm. He looks at her for a moment, amazed by the tiny smile that curves her mouth even in sleep, and then wraps his arms around her, lying back with a contented sigh.


| Fiction Index | Home Page | Back |