Chapter Text
Chapter Three: January, 1999
Buffy plus Angel plus taking things slow proves a doomed endeavor from day one. They’d had enough difficulty keeping their hands off each other when they thought the fallout could be cataclysmic, and “we really ought to wait” just fails to carry the same import.
In the end, they barely hold out for two weeks before their resolve breaks down. While neither of them would deem it a mistake, that first time they get physical again can only be described as a loss of control.
It’s an otherwise unexceptional night. They’re hanging out at the mansion after patrol: something they’ve been doing a lot recently, in the interest of getting comfortable with each other’s company again. Not that either of them honestly believes “comfortable” is coming, but if there’s one thing Buffy and Angel excel at, it’s denial. (Okay, so there’s that whole demon-killing thing too.) So she’s laying back on one side of the couch, procrastinating reviewing her chem notes by messing with her hair. He’s sitting at the far end, reading something or other assuredly very old in a language that may or may not be English but she won’t understand either way.
Then she looks up at precisely the wrong moment and finds him watching her with a look of such longing, such undiluted lust, that she can’t help but shiver under the scrutiny. His hungry gaze flickers to her lips, and unconsciously the tip of her tongue darts out to wet them.
She wrenches her eyes away, focuses intently on her hands in her lap, and tries to pretend she didn’t see him looking, but it’s already too late. Too late, because the heat of his gaze has set a fire inside her that will not be extinguished. It sears through her and settles in the pit of her stomach. Her thighs clench, and she knows that she is wet.
Still she tries not to let on, not to show any outward sign (vain an effort though that may be when he can undoubtedly smell her arousal and hear her racing heart). She rolls her hips in a fruitless attempt to ease the sudden ache in her core, and tries not to think about what she knows would cure that ache. It would be a dangerous temptation to even contemplate having his thick cock buried inside her, his – fuck, she’s thinking about it.
But she can stay calm. She can stay controlled, can keep her temptation to herself. She can.
She crosses her legs, and in shifting position her foot nudges his thigh.
Angel half-turns toward her, and his hand brushes over her ankle. The seemingly absent caress feels electric. She looks up at him, and all the passion and need she’s feeling are plainly written across her flushed face.
“Buffy...,” he breathes, his voice coming low and husky.
That’s all it takes: a glance, a touch too many, and restraint is a distant memory. Their eyes lock, and she knows it’s a lost cause. Their relationship has a million and one issues still that they ought to work through before taking this step, but she can’t seem to care any longer, can’t find the strength to fight the inevitable.
Buffy isn’t sure whether he reaches for her or she reaches for him – or perhaps they both surge forward at once – but the next thing she knows they are grasping at each other in a frenzy of hands and teeth and tongues. She kisses him so fiercely that her teeth sink into his lip and she tastes blood.
They’re only half upright, so she tugs him the rest of the way down onto her: his knees straddle her hips and his erection grinds against the soft flesh of her stomach and she revels in the feel of his body over hers, the solid weight of him pressing her into the cushions. It’s still not close enough, so she curls her fingers into the hair at the base of his neck while one of his hands finds its way up under her shirt to span the small of her back and the other cups her ass.
Only when her need for air outstrips her need for him does she force herself to tear her mouth away. As she struggles to catch her breath, he takes advantage of the opening to strip her shirt off. Almost in the same motion, clever fingers flick open the clasp of her bra, and his mouth envelops her breast.
She bucks up under him wildly, desperate for more of his touch. She remembers nights, in those last halcyon weeks before she turned seventeen, when they’d spent hours solely in making out and heavy petting like this – but she doesn’t have the patience for it now, and she suspects neither does he.
“Bed. Now,” Buffy gasps out, because if they don’t relocate soon they’re going to end up fucking on the couch and that doesn’t seem like the most comfortable of prospects.
Angel swings her up into his arms without hesitation, and she nuzzles her cheek against his chest as he carries her out of the room. He’s wearing a soft sweater that’s excellent for cuddling with, but at the moment she just wants it gone, so she peels it off of him as soon as he sets her down on the bed.
She runs her hands down his sides, grabs onto his hips and pulls him close, greedy for the return of full-body contact. He clutches at her just as eagerly, but twists so that she ends up straddling him this time. His mouth finds hers once more, sucking and nipping at her lower lip before moving on down her jawline. She turns her head to nip at his cheek in turn.
At the same time, his hands are busy unzipping her jeans. He slips one hand inside the open fly to press into her through her panties, the heel resting against her mound. She rocks into the pressure with a moan and her fingers dig into his back.
She rolls off of him, pulling away to wriggle free of her jeans and panties, and stretches out on her back. When she spreads her legs in wordless invitation, he is out of his pants and poised above her in what feels like the space of a heartbeat.
In the midst of their desperate scramble for sensation and connection, time slows to a crawl for a moment, suspended upon the precipice of no return. There’s a look in his eyes that’s hot and tender all at once: more than lust, more than passion, something akin to awe. The weight of emotion is so intense that she almost thinks her heart is going to burst.
Then he pushes inside her and time abruptly resumes its normal flow. Her breath catches in her throat. “Oh, fuck,” she gasps.
God, she’d forgotten how big he is; he stretches her so tight she feels like she’ll be split in two. The night Angel took her virginity, he’d been so gentle with her, careful not to move until she had as much time as she needed to adjust. It was what she needed back then, but tonight Buffy doesn’t want careful or gentle. She doesn’t want time to adjust. She wants – she needs – to feel all of him, overwhelming her senses, hard and fast and now.
She wraps her legs around his body, determinedly pulling him in deeper, and kisses him hard. “Need you,” she pants when she breaks away, bucking up under him to punctuate that statement. “Just – take me.”
And he does. He thrusts home, pumps into her with deep, powerful strokes until her world narrows to nothing but the feel of him. Their joining is too frantic to be any kind of artful – more akin to raw, animal mating than sweet lovemaking – but there is a purity to the passion of it, and he makes her body sing.
Her breath comes in ragged gasps and she clutches at his shoulders, holding to him fiercely, her only anchor in a sea of building pleasure. “Oh god, oh yes, oh! Ohhhh....” The words spill from her lips in a mindless chant, rapidly losing coherence as her crest nears, and then it crashes over her and she loses the capacity for words entirely.
He makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a moan as her body convulses around him, and drives into her harder and faster than ever. His motions are growing less coordinated. She realizes he is fighting to retain the last scraps of his control, and suddenly she wants nothing more than to make him lose it, to push him over the peak of ecstasy just as he has her. She finds renewed energy to meet him thrust for thrust, keeping up the frenetic rhythm, while her mouth settles at the base of his neck. She scrapes her teeth over his skin before bringing her lips together and sucking lightly.
She feels the moment he can hold back no longer. His hips jerk one last time, as if trying to push still deeper inside her. He comes with a wild cry of her name, flooding her core with the cool rush of his seed.
Her lips curve in a satisfied smile as he collapses onto her. When he rolls onto his side to spare her his weight, she keeps her limbs tightly wrapped around him, unwilling to let him slip from her body as yet. She thinks she can still feel his cock pulsing slightly within her. He bends his head to hers, twines his fingers in her hair and kisses her deeply.
“I love you so much,” she murmurs against his lips.
He strokes an affectionate hand over her hair. “And I, you.”
She shivers slightly as the heat of exertion dissipates, but before she can even say anything he pulls the covers up to cover them both. She relaxes against his side with a soft sigh of contentment.
She feels blissed out and boneless, too drowsy and sated to even contemplate getting up. Forget about going home; she’ll apologize to her mom later. “Would it be okay if I just ... never move again?”
“You’ll hear no objections from me.” Angel presses a kiss to her forehead, and she thinks she can feel him smile against her skin.
Buffy shifts just enough to make herself comfortable with her head resting on his chest. His arm draping over her shoulders is the last thing she’s aware of before she lets sleep claim her.
***
She wakes in Angel’s big bed with him holding her: curled around her back, still skin to skin, his body warm from the heat of hers.
Intellectually, she knows he can’t turn again. Intellectually, she knows he wouldn’t still be beside her if he had. Her heart needs reassurance anyway. “Angel?”
“Buffy. You’re awake.” Soft velvet voice, warm and tender as he presses a kiss to her hair. No faking this.
She twists her head and shoulders around so she can kiss him without leaving the comfort of his embrace, soft at first and then more fervently. “I love you,” she murmurs when she breaks away.
“I love you,” he replies without hesitation, one hand lightly cupping her cheek. “Not that I’m complaining, but ... what brought that on?”
She shrugs minutely. “Just ... being here. Being you.”
Angel holds her tighter, and she knows he understands exactly what has been worrying her. “I’m not going anywhere,” he soothes. “Not ever.”
She blinks rapidly as her eyes water; she feels silly and clingy and irrational, but she can’t stop. “I know that,” she chokes out. “I just don’t know how to trust to it. I’ve spent so long being scared, I don’t know how to convince myself it can be all right now.”
He doesn’t have an answer to that, just keeps holding her close and strokes her hair so gently and looks at her with infinite sorrow in his warm dark eyes. There’s a part of her that half-wishes he would lie to her: promise never to hurt her again, find some pretty comforting words to make it all okay. But they both know there are no guarantees in life, and no healer but time for some wounds, and she appreciates the honesty of his silence more than any comforting lie.
As the memory of fear recedes, her body reminds her that she is still very naked, and pressed against an equally naked Angel. The feel of him against her skin is too good for her to dwell on the past for long. She relaxes in his embrace, and turns her head to let her lips ghost over his jaw. A slow heat blossoms in the pit of her stomach as she strokes one foot up and down his calf.
She feels him stir against her back and smiles to herself, writhing against his slowly hardening flesh. His low groan sends a bolt of heat through her, but he grasps her hips in an attempt to still her motions.
“Buffy...,” he says, a hesitation. Are you sure this is a good idea? she hears.
“Just kiss me,” she says. She hears the echo of the past in the words ... and lets it go: lets it fade away as his fingers twine in her hair and his lips descend on hers. “Just love me,” she continues when the kiss breaks.
“Always,” Angel promises, the word a soft caress. His arms wrap around her, hands palming her breasts, while his lips rain light kisses over her back and shoulders, so soft and sensual that it makes her tremble.
She arches her back, pressing herself closer into his hands and against his hips with a hum of pleasure. He massages her breasts for a long minute, his thumbs brushing the hardened peaks of her nipples, before his hands slide down her sides to encircle her waist.
He uses that hold to lift her and tilt her hips just so until she can feel his cock pressing up between her legs, the head nudging at her entrance from behind. He pauses again there, whether hesitating or simply drawing out the moment she’s not sure.
Either way, Buffy doesn’t want to wait any longer. She pushes back against him so he slides into her, filling her slow and smooth and perfect. “Ohhh...” The moan that spills from her lips is echoed by his own.
He pulls back almost all the way and strokes into her once more, just as slow. Repeats the action again and again, burying himself to the hilt with each long, leisurely stroke. She tries to push the pace faster but his hands tighten on her hips, unyielding. His lips trail up her neck and over the side of her face before stopping to nibble at the lobe of her ear, drawing a helpless mewl from her.
It’s enough to make her melt. She surrenders to the tenderness of his touch and stops fighting to take control. Instead she rocks back against him, seating him all the more deeply inside her, and lets herself be lost in a sensual haze.
They give themselves to each other, that morning, as deliberate as the night before was reckless. If that was all about need and passion, this is comfort and rededication.
Afterwards, they curl together in the still of the morning. She feels the quiet rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek, his false breaths unconsciously synced with her own. She doesn’t remember the last time she felt so hopeful or so content.
“I love you,” she breathes. She’s probably said it a thousand times in the last few weeks, but she can’t stop. It still feels like a miracle that she’s allowed to say it (even allowed to feel it) again.
“I love you,” he murmurs in response. “Whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”
And she knows they will.