Gentle (A Spangel A~Z Ficlet)
Fandom: Angel (Buffyverse)
Rating: M
Pairing: Spangel
Word Count: 1017
Warnings: non-explicit smut, implied anal, just two touch-starved vampires with souls sharing their love, relationship study, stream of consciousness
Summary: These are the nights they live for…
A/N: mo ghrá = my love (irish gaelic)
They didn’t get to be this way often, gentle. Not with each other, not with all the years and damage between them. More often than not, their clandestine couplings were preceded by harsh words and even harsher blows, a build-up of a week’s worth of heated arguments to public and conspicuous to conclude in passion. Or, from too many nights spent watching each other tearing demons to shreds, bloodied knuckles and split lips leading to frenzied sex up against the nearest brick wall, hood of a car, hastily cleared desk; no time to wait for the soft landing of a bed beneath them before one tore into the other, fangs, fingers, and cock sinking into needy flesh.
Far and few between, though, were those nights where they didn’t have to go out to track down some vile beastie, or deal with another lapse in building security that once again put the firm’s employees at risk; nights that had followed days at the office where they managed not to goad each other to near insanity, or piss each other off into a screaming match. Nights where their blood was calm, the demons not snarling within to try and force their dominance. These were the nights they longed for.
Nights when Angel could invite Spike up to the penthouse without the rest of the team thinking they needed to intervene to prevent coming to work the following morning to find the snarky blonde dusted and vacuumed up by the cleaning crew. When Spike could press Angel against the wall of the elevator to kiss him dizzy before the doors dinged open, letting the brunette pull away, panting needlessly, to lead him by the hand to the bedroom, the offer of a shared dinner of otter blood promptly forgotten.
These nights, their respective wardrobes thanked them for. Clothes were shed with reverence, one layer at a time, buttons and zippers still intact, coat sleeves not torn in lust-fueled haste, but set aside on the chair in the corner. Shoes and socks toed off at the foot of the bed before two contrasting bodies fell upon it; one pale and lithe, pushing its way easily up the bed, the other retaining its centuries-old slight tan, broad and sturdy as it stalked catlike after its conquest.
Angel relished these moments, when he could spend endless minutes mapping out the miles of bare skin laid out beneath him, lips and fingers, tongue and teeth memorizing the path of every vein just visible under pale, trembling, flesh. He would trace over each dip and curve of the slighter body, watching how Spike’s muscles would twitch and flex under these softer touches. He took his time on these nights, pausing his ministrations every few minutes to stretch back up to claim Spike’s lips and thoroughly explore the cool, pliant mouth until the faintest whimpers would bubble up the slender throat before slipping back down to continue his path down the blonde’s body.
Spike luxuriated in these nights, giving himself over to the attention Angel lavished upon him. Soaked it up, stored it to remind himself that his Sire still cared, even when they raged and wailed at each other until they saw red and bloodlust gave over to regular old lust-lust. These were the moments that made every other moment worth it. Moments where he felt cool lips and fingers working over his body, blunt teeth nipping and teasing, until he was writhing on the bed, keening whines building at the back of his throat as he began to plead.
“More, luv, please…need more.”
More gentle, more tender, more fingers, lips, teeth, tongue. More of this, more of all of this. Until it all became too much, not enough, and he would wrap his legs around the broad back hovering above him and roll them over. Give back all the gentle and tender, all the slow and sweet, that had been bestowed upon him. Touch as he had been touched, cherish as he had been cherished, until the strong body beneath him melted into the mattress. Spike would take his time, tease at each bit of skin until Angel let out a soft grunt or sigh, move to the next, repeat. From forehead to foot, and back up again, until they were both aching, panting, skin buzzing, blazing, scorching, set alight from the inside with cool fire left behind by the graze of fingers, the brush of lips, the lash of flicking tongues.
Only then, when it was all just one long, unending, stream of sensations that blended into one another, then would come the whisper.
“God, Spike, mo ghrá, need you.”
Minutes may have passed, or hours, since they stumbled into the room; if pressed to recall, neither would know for sure. Too lost within each other, within these moments, to tell, to care. Every moment led to this one, this infinite second when finally Spike would pull away, straddle Angel’s hips, and sink down upon the aching length that had received far too little attention, his own hardness ignored until a cool hand that was not his own would wrap around it.
Hands would grip at hips or shoulders, a little firmer, but still so gentle in comparison to the moments outside this room, pushing, pulling, guiding with wordless commands and pleas. Bodies would entwine, thrust up or rock down, ride that cliff’s edge until it crumbled beneath them, voices finally crying, shouting, moaning, out as they fell.
Teeth would sink into willing flesh as they slowed and stuttered to a stop. Arms pulled each other close, contrasted bodies still connected, trembling, soothing. Mouths, wet with family blood, would search and find each other, moving languidly together to draw out yet another moment. They would shift, turn, slide, eventually find themselves beneath the covers, arms and legs wrapped around each other, as, passions sated, eyes began to slip shut. Chests rumbled with contented purrs, one head tucked under a chin, or a nose buried into sex-ruffled hair, and then voices would murmur.
“I love you. Never forget that I love you.”
Rating: M
Pairing: Spangel
Word Count: 1017
Warnings: non-explicit smut, implied anal, just two touch-starved vampires with souls sharing their love, relationship study, stream of consciousness
Summary: These are the nights they live for…
A/N: mo ghrá = my love (irish gaelic)
They didn’t get to be this way often, gentle. Not with each other, not with all the years and damage between them. More often than not, their clandestine couplings were preceded by harsh words and even harsher blows, a build-up of a week’s worth of heated arguments to public and conspicuous to conclude in passion. Or, from too many nights spent watching each other tearing demons to shreds, bloodied knuckles and split lips leading to frenzied sex up against the nearest brick wall, hood of a car, hastily cleared desk; no time to wait for the soft landing of a bed beneath them before one tore into the other, fangs, fingers, and cock sinking into needy flesh.
Far and few between, though, were those nights where they didn’t have to go out to track down some vile beastie, or deal with another lapse in building security that once again put the firm’s employees at risk; nights that had followed days at the office where they managed not to goad each other to near insanity, or piss each other off into a screaming match. Nights where their blood was calm, the demons not snarling within to try and force their dominance. These were the nights they longed for.
Nights when Angel could invite Spike up to the penthouse without the rest of the team thinking they needed to intervene to prevent coming to work the following morning to find the snarky blonde dusted and vacuumed up by the cleaning crew. When Spike could press Angel against the wall of the elevator to kiss him dizzy before the doors dinged open, letting the brunette pull away, panting needlessly, to lead him by the hand to the bedroom, the offer of a shared dinner of otter blood promptly forgotten.
These nights, their respective wardrobes thanked them for. Clothes were shed with reverence, one layer at a time, buttons and zippers still intact, coat sleeves not torn in lust-fueled haste, but set aside on the chair in the corner. Shoes and socks toed off at the foot of the bed before two contrasting bodies fell upon it; one pale and lithe, pushing its way easily up the bed, the other retaining its centuries-old slight tan, broad and sturdy as it stalked catlike after its conquest.
Angel relished these moments, when he could spend endless minutes mapping out the miles of bare skin laid out beneath him, lips and fingers, tongue and teeth memorizing the path of every vein just visible under pale, trembling, flesh. He would trace over each dip and curve of the slighter body, watching how Spike’s muscles would twitch and flex under these softer touches. He took his time on these nights, pausing his ministrations every few minutes to stretch back up to claim Spike’s lips and thoroughly explore the cool, pliant mouth until the faintest whimpers would bubble up the slender throat before slipping back down to continue his path down the blonde’s body.
Spike luxuriated in these nights, giving himself over to the attention Angel lavished upon him. Soaked it up, stored it to remind himself that his Sire still cared, even when they raged and wailed at each other until they saw red and bloodlust gave over to regular old lust-lust. These were the moments that made every other moment worth it. Moments where he felt cool lips and fingers working over his body, blunt teeth nipping and teasing, until he was writhing on the bed, keening whines building at the back of his throat as he began to plead.
“More, luv, please…need more.”
More gentle, more tender, more fingers, lips, teeth, tongue. More of this, more of all of this. Until it all became too much, not enough, and he would wrap his legs around the broad back hovering above him and roll them over. Give back all the gentle and tender, all the slow and sweet, that had been bestowed upon him. Touch as he had been touched, cherish as he had been cherished, until the strong body beneath him melted into the mattress. Spike would take his time, tease at each bit of skin until Angel let out a soft grunt or sigh, move to the next, repeat. From forehead to foot, and back up again, until they were both aching, panting, skin buzzing, blazing, scorching, set alight from the inside with cool fire left behind by the graze of fingers, the brush of lips, the lash of flicking tongues.
Only then, when it was all just one long, unending, stream of sensations that blended into one another, then would come the whisper.
“God, Spike, mo ghrá, need you.”
Minutes may have passed, or hours, since they stumbled into the room; if pressed to recall, neither would know for sure. Too lost within each other, within these moments, to tell, to care. Every moment led to this one, this infinite second when finally Spike would pull away, straddle Angel’s hips, and sink down upon the aching length that had received far too little attention, his own hardness ignored until a cool hand that was not his own would wrap around it.
Hands would grip at hips or shoulders, a little firmer, but still so gentle in comparison to the moments outside this room, pushing, pulling, guiding with wordless commands and pleas. Bodies would entwine, thrust up or rock down, ride that cliff’s edge until it crumbled beneath them, voices finally crying, shouting, moaning, out as they fell.
Teeth would sink into willing flesh as they slowed and stuttered to a stop. Arms pulled each other close, contrasted bodies still connected, trembling, soothing. Mouths, wet with family blood, would search and find each other, moving languidly together to draw out yet another moment. They would shift, turn, slide, eventually find themselves beneath the covers, arms and legs wrapped around each other, as, passions sated, eyes began to slip shut. Chests rumbled with contented purrs, one head tucked under a chin, or a nose buried into sex-ruffled hair, and then voices would murmur.
“I love you. Never forget that I love you.”