FIC: "Hot Sex," Buffy/Angel, NC-17 for ba4ever
Okay, this hasn't been beta read, and it is so saccharine that if you eat it before dinner, it'll spoil your appetite. You've been warned: it's all unsupervised sex and candy.
TITLE: Hot Sex
AUTHOR: Lamia Archer
RATING: NC-17. I know, I’m shocked, too.
FANDOM: “Buffy”
PAIRING: Buffy/Angel
WORD COUNT: 4,597 (And, for those keeping track, 42 of those words are words that are synonyms of “hot” or “fever” or something like that, and the word “thermometer” is used five times.)
SUMMARY: Fluff! But with sex. (Because I don’t do fluff, except with fixin’s, and only on demand; it’s for Karla.) Angel’s sick, and Buffy has a unique thought on how to cheer him up.
SPOILERS: Ambiguous future after Angel shanshus.
DEDICATION: For Karla-with-a-K, ba4ever who wanted B/A with “HOTSECKS!” in this meme. (And also a little for southernbangel, who guilted me into finishing this because, "now you need to write hot!dirty!kinky! B/A porn. To right the universe and all," after I misaligned the universe with this fic.
“How long do I have to hold still?” Angel mumbled, balancing the object in his mouth artfully enough to give his wife pause.
Buffy frowned - at his impatience, not the possible ways he might have developed that manner of adroitness.
“Longer than that,” she answered. “Until it beeps.”
He huffed dramatically but obediently stilled, setting his mouth in a tight frown around the drugstore thermometer.
Buffy smiled, pleased with his compliance, but then the stupid device - of course - started chirping and he got to be all uncooperative again.
Immediately, like the thermometer had gotten hot instead of noisy, Angel pulled the offending item from his mouth and handed it off to Buffy: he excused himself automatically from anything that might be more technologically advanced than a rotary dial as a matter of course.
Buffy eyed him curiously over the thermometer’s tiny screen.
“It’s a digital readout, sweetie. Your watch is more complicated.”
Angel made a brief noncommittal gesture in defense of his behavior. “Fine. What’s it say?”
“You have a fever,” she announced cheerfully. “100°. Congratulations, another fun human milestone for the album.”
Angel closed his eyes under duress and leaned back against his pillows. “Forgive me if I don’t celebrate.”
Buffy reset the thermometer and set it on the bedside table to her left, then fussed with his covers a little.
“Well,” she said comfortingly, “at least you’ve got me here to take care of you-”
“This isn’t really how I like to spend all day in bed with you,” he grumbled.
She looked up from her needless chore to his scowling face. He was almost pouting; it took a lot of Buffy’s Slayer strength to keep her from grinning.
“Do you want me to leave you alone?” she asked innocently. “You sound a little grumpy.”
“No,” he said, sounding a lot grumpy.
“‘No’ what?” she asked sweetly.
Angel gritted his teeth. “Buffy, just . . . stay with me, okay? I don’t feel well, and I’m all . . . itchy, and I don’t want you to go.”
She settled down beside him, pressed a kiss to his temple. “All right. I’m all yours. But you know, you wouldn’t be all itchy if you had just listened to me and-”
Angel groaned. “Do you really think right now is the best time for the I told you so dance?”
Buffy looked innocent. “All I know is I said that it would be a good idea for you to get a chicken pox immunization shot-”
“The doctor said that half the time they end up giving you chicken pox anyway-”
“-and since I’m your wife, whom you promised to love, cherish, and obey, I thought my opinion might mean something to you-”
“-and since she’s a doctor, she might know something about the matter, since it’s her job-”
“-and I am, by the way, not at all upset or insecure because you feel you need an attractive female doctor-”
“-you’re the one who said she was attractive, not me. And I just like women doctors, because, I mean . . . I don’t want some guy making me strip down, and grabbing my sensitive spots and having me turn my head and cough! Plus, you know I have that alpha male thing where I see other men giving me even innocuous commands as an attack-”
“-and I’m in no way threatened by her-”
“-you’re the one who said she was attractive!”
“All I know is, I said you should get the shot, and you didn’t, and here you are, lying in bed with the chicken pox,” Buffy finished artlessly.
“Which makes you smarter than the doctor?” Angel guessed.
“No,” Buffy replied, a smile fighting its way onto her face. “That makes me smarter than you. And prettier than the doctor.”
Angel shook his head, but he was smiling, too. “You need to be spanked in the worst way.”
Buffy stuck out her tongue. “Too bad, mister. You’re laid up in bed; my bottom remains unscathed.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You think I’m going to have chicken pox forever? I’ve got news for you, doctor . . .”
He tugged playfully at a strand of her hair. She slapped him away, giggling.
“Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly, a radiant smile blooming over her face. “That reminds me.”
She bounced up and ran for the door. “I’ll be right back. You don’t go anywhere, okay?”
Angel sighed; the prospect was dizzying, literally. “Not a problem.”
***
Buffy’s definition of “right back” was somewhat different than Angel’s; this was a truth he had learned well in their two years of marriage. Buffy operated on Buffy time: “right back” meant “five or ten minutes,” just like “I’m almost ready” means “Don’t even think about starting the car, because I’m still doing my makeup and I haven’t decided what I’m going to wear.”
So when she said she would be right back, he decided to rest his eyes, because he was feeling kind of swimmy in the head and a little eye resting would probably do that some good. And when Buffy flounced back in the room five or ten minutes later, she found him almost asleep. It definitely hadn’t been her plan, but Angel was sick and she didn’t know how it had happened, because it so wasn’t her, but sometimes she got kind of a mothering instinct over him; he’d cut his hand making dinner or get hurt on patrol - which happened more frequently now that he was human, no pretending it didn’t - and instead of being Battle-Headed Buffy, she’d want to . . . fawn over him a little. It was weird. But he seemed to get it, and he tolerated it, maybe because he wanted kids - Whoa. So not ready for that, mister, but practice makes perfect, so you just keep asking . . . - so she usually indulged in her little moments of Mommy Weakness. So instead of waking him up to show him her surprise, she fixed his covers over him. Then she was going to leave the room and let him have his nap, except he wasn’t all the way asleep or something, because his eyes opened and met hers.
“Oh,” she said, a little stunned. “I, um, I didn’t mean to wake you up, sweetie, I was just-”
“No,” he said, his voice a little sleep-logged. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I was just resting-” His eyes flickered down over her briefly, and his words choked in his throat. “Wow. Uh, heh, wow, Buffy, what-what are you . . . ?”
She blushed and stood up properly, smoothed her skirt, and struck a demure little pose for him. She’d come back into the room wearing a white stretch satin zip-front dress that dipped almost to her nipples in the front and fell only to miniskirt length, sheer white back-seam thigh-high stockings, impossibly high white stacked heels, and a stethoscope.
Angel’s surprise was understandable.
Buffy tried to explain: “It was . . . it’s stupid, I guess. I bought it weeks ago for . . . like a surprise . . . no reason, I just thought . . . but I figured since you were sick, maybe it would cheer you up . . .” She lowered her eyes for a moment, then looked back up at her husband unconfidently. “Is it not okay?”
Angel was a moment in responding; his jaw moved a few times before actual words came out, though.
“It’s . . . baby, it’s a lot more than okay. You look . . . you’re pretty heart stopping, Buffy.” He paused. “Just . . . tell me this isn’t because you’re jealous of Dr. Rice, because believe me, I don’t even think of looking at other women, and if it bothers you that much, I will find another doctor-”
She smiled sheepishly. “No. It’s not ’cause of that. I just . . . wanted to look sexy for you. I do look sexy, right?”
Angel did his impression of an actor in a Godzilla movie again.
“Baby,” he managed finally, “we-I-yes. Very, very sexy.”
She grinned. “That sexy, huh? Made you forget all your speaking English?”
Angel motioned painfully. “Sweetie, I’m almost positive you’re raising my temperature.”
Buffy looked stricken. “Oh, no! I was trying to help-”
Angel sighed. “I’m kidding. Just . . . come here, please, because if I don’t get to touch you soon, I think I might-”
He started to rise but Buffy stopped him with the Oh, no you don’t, mister face she usually reserved for when he tried to weasel out of things pleading ignorance re: his recent humanization.
“I’m going to take your temperature again,” she said sternly.
He moaned. “Buffy . . .”
“I’m not going to make you sicker! I-”
He caught her by the waist as she went for the thermometer. She squeaked a little in protest, but he pointedly ignored her and dragged her into his lap.
“Hey! I-”
“You know,” he said silkily, ignoring her glare, “in my day, physicians used to cure fevers by sweating them out of their patients.”
The glare lessened somewhat. “Really?” She eyed him skeptically. “Is that true or are you just saying that so you can sexually harass me in this getup?”
He grinned. “It is true, but I am just saying it so I can sexually harass you, yes.”
She started wriggling away from him, but he pulled her close against his fevered body and she stilled.
“Oh . . .” she murmured, her brow creasing a bit in concern. “Baby, you’re so hot!”
“You too,” he replied absently, tracing his forefinger over her décolletage. “What are you wearing under this?”
She frowned and swatted him away; he settled his hand back on her waist.
“Angel, you’re not listening to me.” She held the back of her hand to his forehead and her frown deepened. “You’re burning up.”
He raised his eyes to her hand, but that made him go a little cross-eyed, so he looked at her prettily scowling face instead.
“I have a fever,” he said patiently. “I’m sick. We’ve discussed this. I’m also itchy and cross and you promised to distract me.”
He very subtly let his hands slip from her waist to her thighs; he slid his hands lazily over the bare skin above the nylons, then back up to where the satin covered her plump little bottom, massaged the flesh there.
The scowl left Buffy’s face slowly; it was replaced by an almost confused, desperate look: lip biting, fighting for composure.
“That feels good,” she murmured, distracted. “I mean . . . stop it.”
A smile crept over Angel’s features before he could prevent it from spoiling his definitely not misbehaving milieu. Buffy caught his smile and frowned again.
“No, you’re . . . you’re sick, we . . . we can’t . . .”
“You’re encouraging me,” Angel said gravely. “And it would be cruel of you to get me worked up and just leave me alone.”
He took her firmly by the waist and, before she could protest too much, pulled her so she was sitting directly over the source of his distraction. A blush washed over Buffy in an instant; he was very distracted.
“Angel,” she chastised quietly.
Now that she knew how interested he was, he felt safe cutting her leash; he took one hand from her waist and brushed some of the hair from her face just so he could linger over her burning cheek, then followed the curve of her throat down to where the plastic stethoscope lay between her ripe breasts.
He tapped the round chestpiece and tried to meet her eyes; she avoided his gaze, still blushing and pouting.
“Isn’t there something in your creed about easing suffering?” he asked cautiously.
Despite herself, Buffy started to grin. She slid her eyes over to her husband; he was looking at her slyly - and still gorgeous, damn him, even if he was a little febrile and mussed from sleep and spotted with chicken pox.
“You are such a cad,” she said, carefully positioning herself so that she was seated astride rather than sidesaddle.
Angel tried to look hurt, but he was a little too interested in what Buffy was doing; to begin with, it felt very nice, to have her moving her delectable body over and against him in that manner, but beyond that, when she spread her legs like that, her skirt rode up another few inches, and it was already short to begin with . . .
“I am not a cad,” he replied absently, watching Buffy’s hem inch higher and higher up her beautifully toned thighs. He was imagining what those legs would feel like if they wrapped around him a little bit tighter, and the thought was making him kind of dizzy. Or that could be the fever, but it was probably Buffy; she had that effect on him. “I’m a very principled individual, thank you-”
“Cad buys you sex,” Buffy said temptingly.
“Maybe not completely principled,” Angel amended immediately.
The hem rose another inch. Like the latch had broken and it couldn’t stay shut on its own, Angel’s jaw fell in direct proportion. A slow, wicked smile curled its way over Buffy’s face.
“I wanna hear you say it,” she said huskily, her best phone sex voice. It did the trick; Angel’s cock jerked beneath her, and his eyes even flashed up for a moment from her ever-shortening hemline.
“Say what?”
“That you’re a cad,” she said sweetly. Baby voice.
Angel groaned a little, his cock jerking again; he shifted some to try and alleviate the tease. Buffy shifted herself over him slightly to this aim. He gasped, quietly, his eyes closing briefly, his hands closing over her forearms. But her shift rose her skirt up dramatically, and when he opened his eyes again, he was met with three more inches of Buffy’s bared thighs. His jaw moved soundlessly for a moment and Buffy almost laughed.
“What are you wearing under that?” he asked, not looking up from her hemline.
Buffy was surprised; she was so sure she had him.
“Nothing,” she answered honestly, immediately, so taken off guard that she didn’t formulate a sex voice.
He cocked his head a little to the side, studying her. “That’s what I thought.” He brought his eyes to her. “I’m a cad.” He smiled as her eyes widened a little, shocked. “That what you wanted?”
“I-yes,” she answered weakly.
“Not happy?”
“Lost.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know me like . . . precognition. And I always get confused by you.”
Angel looked at her for a long time before speaking. Finally, he said, “Close your eyes.”
She hesitated. “Really?”
He didn’t get the joke. “Really. Close your eyes.”
She closed her eyes, waited apprehensively. For a moment, there was nothing, and then she felt Angel’s hands cradling her jaw, his mouth against hers: a soft, perfect kiss. She lost her breath, but she always, always lost her breath; he made her feel like drowning, but without the panic, just the falling underwater and getting carried away by the currents part. He broke off after a moment but didn’t break away from her; he rested against her, his hands still curled around her collarbone, her jaw, his body still resting against hers.
“How did that feel?” he asked quietly.
“Like heaven,” she whispered against his burning skin.
He shifted a little below her, broke them apart for a second; when he brought them back together, took her into his embrace, she could feel more fire against her flesh: Angel had taken his shirt off, bared his skin to her.
“You’re so hot . . .”
“I’m okay,” he whispered against the nape of her neck. “It’s okay.”
He pulled away from her a little, made a small valley between them, enough space to work. Then he took Buffy’s right hand and brought it to his left shoulder, palm down.
“What’s that?”
“I-” she paused, understanding what he wanted. “You have a scar. You got hurt on patrol last March. Nasty bunch of vamps with some big damn scythes.”
“Who was there to take care of me?”
“Angel-”
“Not the correct answer.”
She frowned. “I was.”
He took her hand and placed it over his heart, held it there. “And what’s this?”
She whimpered. “It’s your heart, Angel.”
“What’s it do now?”
“It beats,” she whispered.
“Which means what?”
“That you’re human.”
“Which means I’ve got a limited run now. And who have I chosen to spend every minute with, since my days got numbered?”
She sniffled. “Me.”
“Open your eyes.”
When her lashes parted, she was greeted with the sight of Angel’s flushed, slightly spotted face, his dark eyes studying her intently. He locked onto her gaze.
“So you know my body, even with your eyes closed. The map of my world. And you know who my heart beats for, who I come home to every night. The map of my soul. Is there something I’m missing?”
Her bottom lip trembled. “You-you’re really good at saying things so I feel kind of silly but still really safe, you know that?”
He smiled. “It’s a gift.”
Feeling much more confident in herself and her relationship, Buffy smiled and sat up tall in Angel’s lap, running her hands leisurely over her midsection to smooth the silky material . . . and to bring Angel’s attention back to how fabulous she looked.
“Speaking of,” she purred. “Why don’t we get back to your little gift, hmm?”
Very slowly, Buffy ran her tongue over her top lip and then sat back in Angel’s lap, settling right over his cock. While his erection had lessened some during his little I-love-you pep talk, it hadn’t waned completely, and when his scantily clad bride settled her barely-covered-by-this-tiny-bit-of-satin bottom over it, it very quickly jumped back to full salute.
If one were judging solely by the hold of Angel’s jaw and his capacity for speech at this moment, it would not be unreasonable to conclude that his IQ had just dropped fifteen or twenty points.
Buffy was completely aware of both of these recent developments, and just a little bit giddy at how much she’d affected him. She should really buy naughty costumes more often! Oh, but she was aching for him pretty badly, too; as much as she may hate to admit it to anyone outside of this room, there were few things that got her worked up faster than Angel speaking saccharine things about how much he loved her and how she was the only one in the world that he wanted, the only one his heart beat for. She was aching and wet all the way down her legs, but she was also in control, literally on top of the situation; very slowly - subtly, she hoped - she started to rub her aching center against the rise in the blankets. Just a little, just to take the edge off . . .
Okay, subtle it was not; Angel moaned and took hold of her elbow.
“Off to a running start,” he gasped.
Buffy smiled awkwardly. “I’ve always been a crowd pleaser.”
A slow wolf grin spread over Angel’s face. “Speaking of . . .”
For the first time, Angel’s attention fell to the zipper front of Buffy’s scandalous dress. He closed his fingers around the dangling head - Buffy’s breath caught in her chest as he met her eyes in a gravity-heavy moment pre-action - and drew it down the row of shining teeth, unlocking them and exposing Buffy’s luscious breasts.
“I think you’re a little more in costume now,” Angel said appraisingly, studying her newly bared portions appreciatively.
She rolled her eyes. “And here I was thinking I was in costume when I was dressed like a pin-up girl.”
Angel grinned.
“The dress code gets a little more relaxed as the evening progresses,” he replied, then removed her stethoscope - tossing it carelessly to the floor to avoid potential complications later - so he could kiss her neck and collarbones unhindered.
Buffy - still seated astride her husband - closed her eyes and arched back as his kisses progressed steadily southward, surrendering to delicious sensation. Angel’s touch - as always - was perfect, maddening; he always knew just how to work her body, knew how to play it better than even she did. But now he was molten, too, everywhere he touched her - his lap beneath her, his hands supporting her at the waist, his mouth pressing teasing, wonderful kisses against her . . . God, his mouth was so, so hot that she understood how the thermometer worked . . .
She mewled quietly as Angel’s searing mouth enveloped her pebbled nipple. Aroused, she felt so ripe and raw, and the wet heat of his mouth was a delicately painful pleasure that thrilled straight to her aching core. Angel bit down gently, teased the tender flesh with his teeth, and this agitated the flame between her legs so much that she had to find friction against the rise in the covers again to tame it.
Angel was caught off guard and was only just able to steel his jaw from nipping down on her too hard.
“Careful,” he breathed, flushed.
She was panting, writhing against him.
“Sorry.”
He cocked a little half-smile at her. “It’s okay.”
She grinned awkwardly, remembering a thought from earlier, trying to regain her vixen footing. “You’re so hot . . . I feel like I could take your temperature that way.”
Angel laughed. “Maybe I should do the other one before you give me your official reading.”
She smiled disarmingly at him. “Actually, I think we should move onto the next part of the examination. I’m going to have to ask you to remove your pants, sir.”
She stayed in Angel’s lap long enough to watch the priceless expression play over his face, then slid off and helped him out of his pajama bottoms, leaving him completely nude above the mussed bedclothes. Once she’d stripped him and tossed the pants to the floor, Angel started to sit up, both kissing her and attempting to guide her down to the mattress. Buffy drew away and gave him a no nonsense glare.
“Listen here, mister,” she said, pushing him back against his pillows and straddling him again. “You may be the big, strong man - and I appreciate that, don’t get me wrong - but you’re still sick, so mama’s on top tonight. Questions?”
Angel tried to look humbled, but a smile kept fighting its way onto his face and ruining the effect. “No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am-whatever you say, ma’am.”
Buffy gave him a wry look. “As long as we’re all in agreement.”
She leaned down and kissed him, long, slow, passionate. Angel slid his hands along her waist, holding her in place, holding the lengths of their bodies together. Buffy closed her eyes as they kissed and felt Angel burning against every inch of her body.
When they broke off the kiss, she whispered, without opening her eyes, “God, baby, you’re so hot . . .”
Angel chuckled; when Buffy opened her eyes, she found him watching her, smiling.
She drew away from him, sat up. Angel was partially reclined against his pillows; he tried to sit up when Buffy did, but she admonished him and he lay back. She was very, very wet; she could feel it on her thighs, heavy between her legs when she moved. Angel was still fairly hard; she palmed his cock in one hand, ran her hand up and down the length a few times to get him ready. He made a soft noise, but she missed it; she had all of her attention on his face. She liked to watch the way she could affect him - that was the reason she’d bought this stupid outfit in the first place. She knew she was beautiful, sexy even, and that she could turn men’s heads, but she didn’t care about men. She only cared about Angel.
And so she waited to see his mouth open helplessly and the little muscles by his eyes twitch as she hardened him before actually mounting him. The angle was a little awkward because of his position against the pillows, but Buffy was in excellent shape from years of slaying and a bedroom acrobat from years of competing with Angel, so she managed it without problem. She did moan, though, long and low; she felt like she’d been aching for hours, and he always hit right to her core, like they were born to fit together. And she was hot there, too, so hot inside that she couldn’t even feel his heat anymore; the two of them were just going to burn away in the heat of their angry bodies and their shared passion.
Angel curled his hands around her hips as far as he could without sitting up, cradled her as she rode. Buffy put her hands on Angel’s shoulders, pulled against him to give herself leverage. She found a familiar, trancing rhythm: I love you, I love you, I love you . . . She felt febrile, heady with fever, felt sweat sticking the satin fabric of her costume to her, brushed it off her face . . .
“You make me so hot,” she whispered, almost mouthed the words, and then laughed, because she’d never thought about where that expression came from until now.
And the fire below . . . the ache that had been plaguing her all night finally released and she came beautifully, crying out and arching her back like a breaching mermaid. Angel’d been waiting for her, and he came quietly, his hands around her waist closing in harder all of a sudden, jerking her forward a little. Poor spotted Angel looked really flushed, a little wasted.
Her mothering thing was kicking in again.
“Are you okay?”
Very gently, she slid off him, came to lie beside him, petted his sweaty hair.
He struggled to focus on her, dazed and confused. “I’m . . . I’m fine.”
“We should take your temperature again.”
He stared at her for a moment, struggling for comprehension, and then laughed. She must have looked hurt, because he pulled her close and kissed her forehead.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” He ran his eyes briefly over her. “You look a bit mussed, though. Very, very beautiful, but mussed.”
Buffy looked down. Her zipper had slipped undone to just above the navel, baring all that flesh, and she’d shimmied her skirt up over her hips.
Angel reached to caress her bare bottom; she slapped his hand away, blushing and quickly pulling the skirt down and the zipper up.
“Cad!”
He laughed.
“You know, I think this was a pretty successful purchase,” he mused quietly once Buffy had mellowed, pulling appraisingly at the skirt.
“I agree,” Buffy said, sounding fairly pleased with herself.
“We should do this kind of thing again sometime.”
He grinned mischievously.
Buffy picked up the expression and added, “Next time, you should dress up. You could be a cowboy, or - ooh! - a fireman! Or-”
Angel kissed her firmly, the best way he knew to quiet her. What’s more, he knew that Buffy was onto him . . . but she never did seem to mind.