SCRIBES OF ANGEL
FanFic
________________________________
TITLE: Worse Ways to Die -
1/1 - B/A PWP
AUTHOR: Ducks, THE ANTI-JOSS
E-MAIL:
ducksfanfic@yahoo.com
DISCLAIMER: *snort* Yeah, right.
RATING: NC-17 IMPROV #21 - Happy Ending. Hey, a mind-bending orgasm (or two...
or three...) counts. And YES it does so count if it's B/A. Sheesh. ;)
TIMELINE: Future.
PAIRING: B/A SPOILERS: Um... general B/A?
SYNOPSIS: Angel comes home after a long night's work to find a surprise.
Dessert ensues. *g*
DISTRIBUTION: Anyone who has my stuff, please feel free. Otherwise, just ask.
I'll say yes. ;)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: A desperately needed fluff/smut break from Something Old. No
curse. No plot. No angst and woe. Just smut. And whipped cream. :) Great
literature, it ain't.
FEEDBACK: Sure, I'd love some. Naked Angels and Spikes accepted as offerings of
thanks. *weg*
CONTENT: Explicit m/f sexuality; language; bloodplay
DEDICATION: To my poor, tortured minion Dru, who is developing ulcers from
SO:B4. To Margot LeFaye because, well, Jesus... "Storming Heaven" is
just the most beautiful, heartbreaking, delicious, dark, angsty, hopeful
Buffy-death story anywhere. *sigh* And to Shirl, who gave a resounding Horshak
"Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!" when I asked for a beta. To Vatrixsta... because she
talked me out of having Angel indulge in some really silly fucktalk. To
Serena... just because she's so damn cool, and to Anja, who's having as bad a
month at work as I am. Love you, guys.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Worse Ways to Die" 1/1 - B/A Fluffy - PWP by Ducks
When Angel got home and saw the
front door, he had a bizarre (and honestly, none-too pleasant) pang of deja vu
to find a single long-stemmed red rose taped to its face.
He stared at it in horror for a
long moment. That dark, sordid part of his mind that always imagined such
things suddenly wondered if someone had decided that today was a good day to
pay his demon some sorely deserved retribution, and if maybe when he entered,
inside he would find a bottle of champagne chilling on the dining room table
and the air infused with the mournful strains of Puccini and Buffy's dead body,
twisted and broken, lying with her neck at an unnatural angle in their bed.
He shook his head and took a
deep breath. 'Okay... getting a little paranoid in your old age, aren't you?'
Then he noticed the note tucked
beneath the flower -- and it was not careful calligraphy drawn on parchment
paper, but big, loopy, girly script scratched hastily on a sheet torn from
Buffy's pink notebook.
Definitely an improvement. A
smile finally slipped across his lips as he lifted the rose and note from the
door, taking a moment to sniff the former as he gently unfolded the latter.
"Dear Occupant:" it
began. He chuckled, tucking the rose between his teeth and fumbling with his
keys to let himself in.
Inside, the atmosphere was
dreamlike. Hundreds of glass-shielded pillar candles lined every surface,
flickering softly, casting the dining room in a golden glow. Soft music played
-- not opera, thank the Gods, but Enya -- and on the table before him sat not a
bottle of champagne on ice, but a can of whipped cream and a silver bowl filled
with fresh strawberries.
His grin spread an inch as he
tossed his keys on the table, flung his coat haphazardly over the hook, kicked
off his boots, and read the rest of the missive.
"You will find on the table
the ingredients for strawberry shortcake... sans cake. Use your imagination as
to what the substitute might be.
Hint: It's me. I'm naked and
freshly bathed, waiting for you upstairs. Stop gawking and hurry up. I'm
getting cold.
Sincerely,
Your Devoted Love Slut.
P.S. If you're *not* Angel, you
should be warned that I have a very big, very nasty sword under my bed, and my
very big, very nasty husband will eat *you* for dessert if you don't turn back
right now. And I am *not* *your* devoted love slut. Just so we're clear."
He chuckled again and set the
note beside his keys, dashing at top speed into the dining room. Upon closer inspection
of the spread laid out before him, he found that a sheer pair of black
thigh-high stockings surrounded the fixings, also with a note attached.
"For tying down wriggly
desserts," it read.
His dead heart -- and other, not
so dead parts -- throbbed.
Stockings, strawberries and
whipped cream firmly in hand, Angel made his way up the stairs, already fairly
salivating in anticipation.
He *was* pretty hungry.
A trail of clothing guided him
along the way: tidy, businesslike navy wool blazer draped over the handrail...
matching skirt on the middle step... cream silk blouse left like a welcome mat
at the top.
He moved down the hallway toward
their bedroom, following the signs as if he was tracking prey... which,
considering the rumble in his belly and the fire sparked in his blood, he
imagined he rather was.
Lacy slip covering the table in
the hall... demi-bra suspended off the mirror post, and finally, tiny thong
panties hanging on the doorknob.
He picked up the scrap of black silk
and lace, pausing to take a very long, deep, suddenly desperately needed
breath, inhaling her scent from it -- the enticing aroma of Buffymusk -- before
he opened the door.
There she was... a breathtaking
sculpture of soft, living flesh, gently draped with the crimson silk of the
sheets they had selected together, her skin glowing gold in the candlelight,
and wearing a welcoming smile that managed sweetness and hunger all at once.
For one of her heartbeats, he
was stunned frozen by the sight of her. This fulfillment after years being
denied one another pressed heavily on his heart, and not for the first time, he
wondered...
'How did I ever live without
her? How did I bear to come home to an empty house, an empty bed, empty arms?
How is it I didn't just perish from starvation for her?'
As he stood there, staring, he
smiled to himself.
Did any of that really matter
now?
"Hey," she greeted
softly, the ambiance of the room not conducive to louder speech.
"Hey," he replied, as
he did every time he returned to her -- a single word communicating a million
thoughts and emotions at once.
He stepped into the room,
closing the door behind him, and approached the altar where his goddess lay
waiting for his devotion. As he drew closer, he could smell the scent of her clean
skin... the light rose oil she'd used mixing with her body's own spicy vanilla
to create an olfactory feast like no other in all of his entire long existence.
Angel felt himself harden
instantly inside the confines of his clothes, his hands already burning to
touch her... his mouth to taste her... his ears to hear her sighs and cries of
pleasure, to complete his sensory bliss.
He dangled the panties from his
index finger and gave her a wry grin. "Are these yours?"
Her eyes crinkled up, a finely
plucked eyebrow arching sardonically. "They'd better not be anybody
else's."
He held them up to his face
again, setting the foodstuffs and stockings down at the nightstand, and looked
thoughtfully into space.
"Hm," he replied
thoughtfully, taking a long, loud sniff, "Let me see if I can place the
scent. It's so difficult to keep track of all my lovers."
Buffy abruptly sat up and yanked
the offending garment out of his hand and carelessly tossed it aside. Then she
reached out to grab his hand and pulled him over to stand before her.
She let her bare legs swing
loose on either side of his, and nuzzled her nose into the cashmere covering
his midsection. Glancing up at him with sleepy bedroom eyes, she flashed a
mischievous grin.
"You need to be a lot
nakeder," she informed him, and before he could even suggest that maybe
she should do something to help him out with that, her little hands snaked
beneath his sweater, pushing it up over his torso, brushing his sides with a
feather soft caress until she reached his shoulders. He acquiesced to her
unspoken request, raising his arms up over his head, and let her divest him of
the first half of the barrier separating them.
He sighed deep in his chest as
her hands mapped the contours of his form... tiny warm fingertips tracing paths
of fire over his skin. He gasped when her hot little tongue joined the sojourn,
flicking soft and wet down the meridian of his body, pausing only momentarily
to dip into his belly button.
She had barely even begun, and
already he was about to disintegrate in her hands.
For her part, Buffy had very
nearly forgotten all about the detailed seduction that she had been planning
all day. Already wiped from her memory were sweet daydreams that had drawn her
attention away from the doldrums of her faculty meeting, pulling her
consciousness into this very scene. The candles... the music... the silken ties
and the whipped cream.
But then, he always did that to
her. Just the thought of his smile, his big, strong hands, his deep, velvety
voice were enough to drive her to distraction. And when she was actually
blessed to see him... touch him... the whole universe... all thoughts of
anything but this very moment, evaporated instantly.
For all the years they'd been
back together, Buffy had been searching for an accurate word to describe her
incredible lover. Something that could encompass all of the things about him
that had always filled her so deeply, so completely, that she couldn't imagine
how she'd survived the years when they were apart.
It would have to be a word that
captured his physical characteristics... deserving a soliloquy in their own
right. His imposing height... his impossibly wide shoulders, and broad, thickly
muscled chest. Something that told of his long, graceful arms and wide, gentle
hands -- which could wield an enormous broadsword, cleaving the head off some
monster one moment, and hold her, stroke her so tenderly, so carefully that she
might have been made of glass the next. His trim waist... his tight abdomen,
his firm, rounded ass. His thick, perfect thighs... his long, lean legs, all
the way down to his flawlessly straight, perfectly proportioned toes. The soft,
cool marble of his skin, the deep chocolate pools of his expressive eyes... his
tender lips... his proud jaw, his regal cheekbones, his thick, careless hair...
And that wasn't even to mention
how he made her laugh... how he challenged her mind and body... filled her
heart and soul. How he held her when she cried, listened patiently when she
babbled, offered his wisdom and solace when she needed it.
She could go on and on... his
intelligence, his dry, self-deprecating humor. His courage and strength of
conviction. His generous spirit. His poet's heart.
All hers. But try as she might,
she could never find that word. 'Perfect' was as close as she ever got, and
that was so weak, it was pitiful.
So she was left with only this:
touching him. Kissing him. Letting the storm of desire, admiration, and love
raging in her heart out through her fingertips, her lips, and into his skin.
She undid his fly, flicking her
tongue along the fine line of hair that railed from his belly to his crotch as
she slid them down those... *god's* legs... following her hands' journey with
her mouth. Then she spread little nibbles and kisses inside his knees, his
thighs, all the way up to where his erection stood proudly, begging for her
attention.
She took the thick staff in her
hand -- she couldn't close her small fingers around his girth, and sometimes
wondered how it was that he didn't split her in half -- and gave a few gentle
strokes, peeking up to watch his eyes flutter shut and his mouth go slack, his
head tilting back and his hands tangling in her hair as he hissed with
pleasure.
The hiss became a rumbling moan as
she licked around the root of him, tickling over his testicles and the
sensitive silk of the perineum beneath. She reveled in the shudder that shook
him from head to foot as she laved up his length in slow motion, around and up
until she reached the bulging head. Swiftly, she suckled it between lips pulled
tight, flicking her tongue to sweep away the pre-ejaculate that had already
gathered there, and let out an involuntary groan of her own at the joy of his
saltycool taste.
Angel cried out as she took the
whole of him into her throat, holding him by the base with one hand, softly
kneading one hard globe of his rear with the other as she sucked.
"Oh... Christ,
Buffy..." he grunted, his fingers grasping spasmodically at her scalp.
Forcing his eyes open, he looked down, unable to resist the temptation of this
erotic vision... his cock vanishing between her tender lips.... her eyes closed
in concentration, her small hand working in tandem with her mouth. It was a
hypnotizing sight, above and beyond the searing waves of ecstasy building in
his blood. Her head bobbing up, followed by a long, firm stroke of her hand...
down again, taking him deep. Up... out... down... in... The hand not busy in
front occupied behind, lighting sparks on his buttocks, tickling the coarse
hair between, gripping and smoothing his thighs, cupping his aching sac.
This was not promising to be a
record-breaking time to orgasm -- unless the record was for brevity. He usually
prided himself on his stamina -- 100 years of celibacy, and 150 of varied
experience before that had to count for *some* measure of self-control -- but
when she tended to him like this, building up her pace and grip to a pulse he
didn't possess, until she was devouring him with ferocious, mind-bending,
hardfasttight enthusiasm...
It might as well have been his
first time.
He clutched fistfuls of her
hair, unable to resist the urge to thrust deeper into the wet warmth of her
mouth as the inferno consumed him. But she loosened the muscles of her throat
and met his insistent overtures, taking all of him until he could feel her
tonsils against his head. Her hand reached down to gently cup and roll his
balls once more, and in barely the time it took for her tongue to make one
final sweep around and over the ultra-sensitive ridge of his head, he erupted
with a shout that rattled the windows... a long, keening wail as his body
tensed and jerked, and he shuddered a final time as he shot his cool, thick
pleasure into her willing throat.
When she had drunk him down and
licked him clean, she pulled away, grinning up at him.
"Now, *whose* panties are
those?" she quipped.
His trembling knees gave way,
sending him crashing to the bed beside her, never happier (well, almost never)
that he didn't need to breathe. As it was, he shivered from head to foot, his
voice shaking as he replied,
"D-definitely...
yours."
Buffy bent down and claimed his
lips, sucking first the top, then the bottom, firmly between her teeth.
"That's what I
thought," she whispered smugly.
He chuckled, taking a moment to regain
his bearings, relishing her touch as the world slowly stopped spinning, and she
gently traced fingertip circles on his chest.
But he didn't wait long.
With a feral snarl and a burst
of preternatural speed and dexterity, he rose to his knees, flipped her onto
her back, and lashed her wrists to the headboard with the stockings she had so
generously provided.
It happened so fast, she didn't
even have time to yelp.
When she was bound, already
writhing in anticipation, he grabbed the can of whipped cream from the
nightstand, shaking it firmly as he gazed down at her with a lusty grin.
"Time for dessert," he
rumbled, and popped off the cap.
Buffy squealed with delight and
giggled helplessly as he covered her from throat to toes with the cool, sticky
cream. But her giggles swiftly dissolved into blissful sighs as he bent his
talented mouth to the sweet concoction he'd just created of her flesh.
Her skin was so hot, it melted
quickly, and Angel was moving his lips and tongue so achingly slowly, that she
was soon nothing but a puddle of gooey, sugary, melted goo under his touch.
Of course, he took his time.
Every inch of her was a carnal delight, an almost unbearably rich sensory
banquet, with or without topping. He laved long, languid lines under her chin, down
her throat, across her clavicle. He tasted and nibbled her slender shoulders,
the insides of her strong arms, outstretched above her head. He stole a small
eternity to suckle each of her slender fingers... tracing tiny tongue circles
into her palms, and nipped softly at the pulse pounding in her bound wrists.
By the time he came to nurse at
her painfully hard nipples, Buffy was already panting and whimpering, and he
was already hard again, aching to bury himself in the wet heat he could scent
growing between her tanned, muscular legs.
He resisted the urge, though,
too entranced by her beautiful body's responses to what he was doing. How she
gasped as he gently bit down on one ruby peak, worrying it between his teeth as
he flickered his tongue over the tip, then repeating the process to the same
reception on the other side. How she trembled as his tongue re-memorized every
precious turn, hill and valley of her landscape... her ribcage, her waist, the
soft curve of her belly, the rise of her hipbones. He devoured sweet cream and
sweeter flesh over her thighs, first outside, then in. Over and behind her
knees, her tight calves, her tender feet. Holding one in his hand, he suckled
her little toes, laved at her arch, shivering himself as that action gained him
the reward of a long, shuddering moan from his lover. She began to struggle
against her bonds, her body's imperative to reach out and touch him in return
thwarted by the silk at her wrists.
He completed the other foot's
turn, then gently set it to the side, spreading her legs to make room for him
to crawl between. He reached the apex of her form and bent down, bracing his
weight on his elbows and resting his hands on her inner thighs, urging her to
open wider for him.
Dipping his head, he paused to
inhale this, his very favorite smell... the aroma that stirred him and drew him
always toward her, like a moth to the flame. The scent of warmth... of lust and
love and life... Buffy's unique womanscent. No matter where they were or what
they were doing, he could sift through a billion other olfactory signals and
discern that solitary one that identified her unmistakably as his mate.
He was almost loath to add the
whipped cream. It seemed wrong, almost sacrilegious, somehow. Gluttonous, when
her natural taste was such a heady feast in and of itself. But she had asked
for this game, and what his beloved asked for, he could never deny her. He
reclaimed the can from where he'd left it near the edge of the bed, and gave it
another firm shake. Parting her swollen outer lips between thumb and
forefinger, he quickly filled her heated folds with cool cream.
"Angel... yes..." she
sighed beneath him, arching her hips up in encouragement that he in no way
needed.
He plunged his face into the
sweet cloud.
Buffy cried out as his lips and
tongue assaulted her aching sex, devouring the whipped cream quickly and
leaving her screaming skin defenseless against his gentle onslaught. The tip of
his tongue circled the first millimeters of her entrance, teasing her to a
whimpering mewl before plunging its entire length inside. He slid his hands
under her rear and lifted her closer, sealing his face into her quivering
crotch, lips and tongue suckling, plunging, licking and kissing every inch of
her until bliss very nearly became agony. One hand wandered up from her
behind... a single long, graceful finger slipping into her juices, caressing
her inner walls even as his mouth found her clit. Fastening his lips around the
throbbing nub, he nursed at it intently, flicking his tongue around and over
the tip, driving her to plead for mercy. A second finger joined the first, and
soon after, a third, stretching her to the breaking point even as his mouth
gorged on the shrieking bundle of nerves that had quickly become the center of
her universe under his expert touch.
Angel brought her to the
precipice over and over again, but each time she was ready to go over, he would
slow his pace, gentle his rhythm, and bring her back, only to do it again. Forever
came and went in her mind, but still he denied her that deliverance, until she
found herself screaming in supplication... threatening and cajoling, thrusting
her hips up from the bed to try and force him to give her what she wanted.
"OhgodAngelpleasepleasepleaseAngelgod!"
she begged, certain that her body had reached critical mass, and any moment,
her heart and lungs would explode, her overwrought nerves melt down, and her
flesh dissolve, leaving nothing but a puddle of this agonizing bliss.
He left off his mouth's
activity, eliciting a moan of protest, but kept the easy pace of his fingers
inside her.
"Please what?" he
murmured.
"Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!"
she chanted incoherently, her head thrashing back and forth on the pillows.
He teased her hot, swollen clit
with the pad of his thumb -- one sweep, no more, but even that was enough to
evoke a yelp from his squirming, arching beloved.
"You have to tell me what
you want, Buffy," he teased, "Open your eyes Ionuin. Look at me and
tell me what you want..." It was cruel, and he well knew it... but he also
knew that her pleasure at the end result would more than make up for his gentle
torture.
Another flick of his thumb, and
her eyes snapped wide open. He almost came himself at the sight of her passion...
her tanned skin flushed red with rapture, her lips parted enticingly, allowing
her frantic, gasping breath to escape.
"PleaseIwannacomeIwannacomepleasepleaseletmecomeAngel,
Oh, God, PLEASE!" she cried.
Satisfied that she had been
tormented enough, he dove back down, clamping his mouth tightly around her nub,
sucking and flicking firmly, evenly, increasing the deep stroke of his fingers
into her pulsing channel, crooking one digit to caress that tender spot in its
roof, and then gently scraped his teeth over her clit.
And with that, Buffy exploded,
her body going board rigid beneath him, strong hips arching them both off the
bed, and gave a long, ear-shattering cry.
"YYYYYEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSAAAAAANGEELLLLLL!"
He kept hold of her hip, slipped
his fingers out and plunged his mouth in their place, devouring the ambrosia of
juices pouring from her pulsing center until she begged him to stop.
As he did, and pulled away, he
heard the headboard creak, and the stockings tear, and in a moment, she had her
hands free, hauling him upward so they were face to face, and proceeded to kiss
and suckle her own pleasure from his lips. Her strong legs wrapped around his
waist in a crushing grip, and with one fierce thrust of her hips, Angel found
himself buried to the hilt inside her tight, still-pulsing heat.
"Buffy... god..." he
gasped, pulling her tightly to his chest. "You feel so good. You're so...
hot..."
"Yes, baby..." she
moaned, silencing him by thrusting her tongue into his mouth, seeking and
finding his, circling it... stroking it... sucking it between her lips in
imitation of the friction their lower bodies created.
He groaned loudly and drove into
her, overwhelmed by the slick, powerful grasping of her muscles around his
cock, her little heels digging into the small of his back, her nails gouging
deep into his shoulders as she clutched him, urging him on.
And as so often happened when
they came together like this, the languid lovemaking shifted, and in an
unnoticed moment became less gentle... more primal. Soft sighs and moans,
transformed into low grunts and frenzied cries. Angel hitched his hands beneath
her thighs and drew her knees up over his shoulders, changing the angle and
depth of his thrusts until he could feel himself bumping the mouth of her womb.
But it was never deep enough...
he could never get far enough inside her... could never quite burrow down where
he so desperately wanted to be, into the very source of her volcanic inferno,
but the bestial drive of his body forced him perpetually to try. In one swift,
easy motion, he spun Buffy onto her belly, dragging her up onto her hands and
knees as he pounded relentlessly into her core.
Buffy arched her back, slamming
herself onto him, the same desire propelling her... to take her Angel deep into
her cells and keep him there, warm and safe, forever. Maintain this
heart-pounding, muscle and nerve-ripping, earth-shattering rapture as her only
reality.
"ANGEL! Oh God... YES!
Harder! Fuck me!"
Her wanton cries were like
gasoline thrown on an already blazing inferno, and Angel wrapped his arm around
her, pulling her upward until her damp back was flush with his chest. His hand
slipped down her slick belly, one finger swiftly finding her clit once more and
stroking it firmly in time with his incisive thrusts.
Her sugared walls immediately
clamped around him in response, and she bowed in his embrace, throwing her head
back to rest on his shoulder, her throat exposed..
"Buffy," he moaned,
sealing his lips around the pulsing artery, teasing the skin with his tongue
before returning to devour her mouth one last time.
She keened as his fangs
descended, piercing her lower lip, and his cool tongue gently flicked away the
tiny drop of blood he drew. Buffy laced her fingers into his hair and urged him
back to her thundering pulse.
"Drink me...
please..."
His body throbbed in answer to
her command. He held her tightly to him, bracing one arm around her heaving
chest, his fingers still worrying her supersensitive clit as he sank his teeth
into her flesh.
He barely heard her screaming
over the roar of her blood in his ears as she came, impaling herself onto him,
bucking wildly as he drank, deep and hard. When the thick, sweet taste of her
orgasm waned, he withdrew from her neck, focusing once more on the sensations
of her body riding his, her fluttering passage pulling at him, milking him with
every thrust.
Angel nibbled on the tender
shell of her ear, laying his hand flat on her belly to imprison her pelvis as
he drove into her.
"Baby..." he gasped
into her ear, "Buffy... you feel so good... God...loveyou..."
"Yes! Angel, yes!" she
trilled, rising up on her knees, slamming onto him as hard and fast as her
supernatural Slayer muscles could manage.
He slipped his fingers back into
her sex as he finally lost control, grunting loudly as he spurted his cool seed
deep inside of her, his body finally freezing in the rigor of the Little Death
that swallowed his consciousness, filling his sight with stars even as Buffy
bellowed his name once again and quickly joined him.
The world went black for a
moment, and when he regained his senses, he was lying on his back with Buffy
pillowed, panting and sweat-soaked, against his chest. He pulled her closer,
listening to her heartbeat easing, her breath slowly returning to normal, and planted
tender kisses into her damp hair.
"Oh... my... God..."
she breathed, completely boneless in his arms.
"Mmm..." he agreed,
lulled into sleepy, post-coital bliss.
They lay quietly in one
another's embrace, floating in that lazy, languid half-awake silence for a long
time, just enjoying the aftermath of a simple act of love that had so long been
forbidden them. Even all these years later, as frequently and joyfully as they
shared this experience, neither of them seemed to take it for granted.
Angel suspected that he never
would, and when he finally Shanshued, he knew he would get to drown in the
happiness of learning her all over again as a human man.
But for now... he mostly wanted
to sleep.
Buffy perched her chin on his
chest and gave him a smile that wrenched his heart. He reached up and gently
traced it.
"I'm all sticky," she
complained with a wicked glint in her eye. "I think I might need a
shower."
He emitted a half-hearted groan
of protest. "You're going to kill me, woman!"
His boundless little bundle of
energy leapt up from their bed, and reached out her hand.
"You're already dead,"
she reminded him.
Angel sighed.
"Touché," he agreed, and took the proffered hand.
"Plus... we still have
strawberries to eat," she added. "Shower, then fruit, then sleep.
'Kay?"
As she led him toward the
bathroom, he found himself thinking...
Well...there were definitely
worse ways to die.
~Finis~ *G*