Watcher
by indie


"Nice knife."

Buffy spun around in the dark cemetery frantically scanning for the source of the voice.  She and Faith had been sure that they'd made a clean get away from the sporting goods store.  The slayers had parted ways and the elder of the two was heading home.  What if they hadn't gotten away undetected?

She relaxed a bit when she realized it was Angel, but then stiffened once more.  He’d probably be harder to deal with than the cops.

"Yeah," she replied evasively, not meeting his gaze.

"Where's Faith?"

"Out.  Probably went to catch up with those boys again," Buffy mumbled.

"I saw you," he stated plainly.

"Huh?"  She was trying for the dumb blonde routine, knowing full well it wouldn't work.  Not on him.

"How did it make you feel, Buffy?  Do you feel powerful?  Does it make you feel alive?"  His voice had a sharp mocking edge.

"Maybe," she snapped, suddenly angry at his self righteous air.  "What if it does?  Why should Faith get to have all the fun?  We're both stuck in this life of suck known as being the slayer.  Why not enjoy it?"

He stared at her for what had to be minutes, not moving, not blinking, his face set in a determined scowl.

"You're right," he finally answered, his voice deathly calm and biting, "you should enjoy it.  Go ahead and disregard all of the rules you've lived by your entire life.  Go ahead and pretend you *don't* know the difference between right and wrong.  'Want, take, have', isn't that what Faith said?  Just be sure you can handle the consequences, Buffy, because sister slayers or not, you are *not* Faith."

Frustration coupled with anger over his dressing down was too much. "You have a point,” she retorted in a sickly sweet voice, “I'm *not* Faith, because if I was I'd be out fucking those guys from the Bronze instead of heading home to wait for my I-have-a-stick-with-platonic-written-on-it-stuck-up-my-ass boyfriend to come over and give me a chaste kiss on the cheek goodnight."

She regretted saying it as soon as the words were out of her mouth.  He didn’t say anything, he just stood there looking at her, his entire body rigid with fury.  For a moment she thought he was going to rage at her, tell her she belonged to him and that he’d kill any male who tried to touch her.  She could almost hear the words running through his head and she wanted so desperately to hear him say them.  She needed some verbal admission that he did want her physically since he couldn’t seem to bring himself to actually *touch* her.

But he didn’t say anything.

Instead, she felt his anger recede.  He broke eye contact and seemed to deflate as he stared at the ground.  Dammit!  She’d made him feel guilty ... *again*.

“Maybe you should be out with Faith,” he muttered so quietly she had to strain to hear him.

She blinked in disbelief.  “What did you just say?” she screamed, her voice shockingly loud in the still of the cemetery.

He flinched, apparently unprepared for her boiling rage. “That’s ... I didn’t ... ,” he foundered, searching for the words to explain, “Buffy, I didn’t mean that you should be out having empty sex with some guy from a bar, but ...”

“But what?” she hissed through clenched teeth.

He studied her, holding her gaze for several long moments before continuing. “You deserve more than me,” he said bluntly.  “You deserve someone who can be with you without endangering the entire world.”

Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Buffy was lost in the frustration that, for her, had marred every moment of their time together since his return. She wanted him so badly she could taste it.  He said he loved her, he was emotionally supportive, he backed her up on patrol, but when it came down to the physical, he was as distant as possible at all times.  This was the first time he’d even admitted that there was something to be frustrated about.  Most of  the time he just acted like everything was peachy.

He’d been like that for months.  A quick peck on the lips here, an embrace there, but never any lingering contact.  And *never* anything overtly sexual.  No satisfaction, for either of them.  He’d even quit sparring with her after the awkward little incident on her birthday.  But it wasn’t her sexual frustration that was driving her nuts, it was his complete refusal to acknowledge it’s existence.  He just pretended everything was fine.

Things were decidedly not fine.  Truth was, if Buffy could have left him, she would have.  That’s what the whole mess with Scott had been about.  But she couldn’t.  She couldn’t walk away from him and she couldn’t let another man touch her.  It just felt wrong.  So she was stuck.

“What I deserve,” she hissed, “is a boyfriend who will admit there is sexual tension between us.”

“What?”  He looked completely perplexed.

Men!  Glaring, she elaborated, “I’m pissed, Angel.”  She cut him off as he shook his head and opened his mouth, “But *not* for the reasons that you seem to think.”

He gave her a confused look.

“I’m frustrated, yes.  But that’s not why I’m mad.”

Taking pity on him, she softened her tone.  “I want you.  I want you so much I can barely breathe at times.  And it’s worse now than it was before ... my birthday.  Because now I *know* what I’m missing.  I want to be with you  again, and I do mean *be* with you.  I want to touch you, taste you, feel you.  It is awful and frustrating and sometimes I just cry from how maddening and unfair it all is.  But that is not why I’m angry with you right now.”

He shook his head in disbelief.  “Then why are you mad, Buffy?”

“Because you won’t admit there’s anything wrong.”

“What are you talking about?  Of course there’s something wrong.  How can you think I don’t know that?”

He was so dense.  “I’m not saying you don’t *know* there something wrong, Angel.  I’m saying you won’t *admit* it.  You just completely avoid the subject.  You won’t even *talk* about it, not since--” She glanced away and dashed the sudden shimmer of tears from her eyes, “since Christmas.”

For a long moment he looked at the ground.  Finally raising his gaze to hers he said, “What good is talking about it going to do?  Huh?  How is that going to make it any better?  Is telling you how much I want to make love to you until you forget all the pain Angelus caused going to make it any easier to deal with?”

“In a word?  Yes!  Yes, it will make it easier, at least for *me*.  How am I supposed to know what you want?  How am I supposed to know that Angelus wasn’t telling the absolute truth when he said all of those things the morning after my birthday?  How am I supposed to feel desirable when my lover won’t touch me, won’t even talk to me?”

“Buffy,” he groaned, closed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists.  He wanted nothing more than to grab her, to crush her magnificent body to his and never let her go.  But that couldn’t be.  “How can you even think I don’t want you?  Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to stand here and look at you?  I don’t touch you and I don’t talk about it because I want you *so* much that I’m afraid of what will happen if I admit it, even to myself.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, silently lamenting the fact that at times she was just as glaringly inarticulate as he.

His eyes snapped open and he gaped at her.  “Did you really think that I just didn’t want you?”

“Maybe.”

His heart broke at her admission.  She really thought he didn’t want her.  He couldn’t think of anything farther from the truth.  He wanted her so badly his very soul was a constant ache, not to mention certain parts of his physical anatomy.

“We need to talk,” he said, holding his hand out to her.

Nodding, she took his hand and let him lead the way back to the mansion.

Buffy watched silently as he lit the fire.  She didn’t protest as he turned to her, picking her up in his gentle embrace.  Sitting down on the couch with her in his lap, he encouraged her to straddle his thighs so they were face to face.

“So,” he said evenly, gently stroking her hair.  It was difficult to concentrate.  They hadn’t been this close in months.

“So,” she parroted.  She was relieved they were finally talking about things, but irritated it had taken him so long.  She didn’t have to make it easy on him.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to explain things to his young lover.  “Buffy, you need to understand how much I love you, how much I want you ... physically.  It’s not that I don’t want to touch you, Sweetheart, it’s just that I’m afraid if I start that I won’t be able to stop.”

Her expression softened at his admission.  “I love you,” she said softly, leaning forward to kiss him on the lips.

“I love you too,” he answered, meeting her halfway and kissing her deeply.

As their tongues met, sensually rubbing against each other, Buffy felt a measure of relief.  It had been months since he’d dare touch her in this manner.  Sighing against his mouth, she twined her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as she ran her tongue over his.

She slowly became aware of how desperately he was trying to hold himself in check, to maintain the contact without allowing things to get out of hand.  In a moment of clarity, she understood what torture this was for him.  She understood why he didn’t touch her, though he wanted to.  She broke off the kiss, pulling away from him.  He looked at her, perplexed.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, “I didn’t know.”

“Know what?”

“How difficult it is for you.”

He laughed wryly.  “Yeah, it *is* difficult.  Keeping my hands off of you is probably one of the most painful things I’ve ever had to do, but I deal with the pain.  It’s not bad, sort of refreshing in it’s own twisted way.  It makes  me feel alive.”

“Alive?”

“Yeah,” he said, laughing again, “in a physically uncomfortable sort of way.  The frustration makes me feel young.  I haven’t had to beat off this much since I was fourteen.”

Buffy couldn’t respond.

She was pretty sure she’d just had a seizure.

She tried vainly to process what he’d just said.  He *had* said it, hadn’t he?  No.  He couldn’t have.  Her two hundred and forty something year old boyfriend had not just admitted that he ... you know.  Had he?

“D-D-Did you just say ... ?” she started, but discovered she couldn’t finish the sentence.

“That I masturbate while thinking about you?  Yes,” he answered bluntly, meeting her gaze.  He actually had the nerve to look amused at her shock.  “How on earth do you think I could deal with it otherwise, Buffy?  I may have been forced into celibacy, but I’m not a saint.  I don’t relish the idea of having blue balls for the rest of time.”

Oh there she went again, another seizure.

Mr. Eloquent had just uttered the phrase “blue balls”.  She was going to die on the spot.  But dying would have to wait until after she shifted around on his lap to try and allay the ache his embarrassing words caused between her legs.

Angel laughed, a real laugh, rich and full.  Buffy glared at him in response.

“What is so damn funny?” she hissed.

“Nothing,” he said, his face contorting as he tried to control his amusement..

Her glare didn’t lighten up one bit.  “Why exactly is it so amusing that I’m shocked you ... um ... you know.”

“Masturbate?”  Angel supplied, his grin fading as he realized she was serious.

“Yes,” she said, her skin turning positively crimson as she avoided looking him in the eye.

“I guess I’m just shocked that you’re shocked,” he admitted.

“Why?  Do you expect that I sit around thinking about you doing ...that?”  she asked, truly confused, and getting more uncomfortable by the second.

“Not exactly,” he clarified.  “I just assumed you were probably doing the same thing.”

The slayer made a strangled noise as she turned an even deeper shade of red.  After several long moments she managed to choke out, “You thought I was... ?”

“Getting yourself off?  Yes.  I hoped so anyway.  Jesus, Buffy, how are you dealing with this?”

“I ...uh ... I,” she flustered, “I *kill* things!  I run laps.  I take lots of *very* cold showers, which doesn’t really help because ... well ...you’re so cold.  And more recently as you pointed out,” she added wryly, ”I’ve taken to breaking and entering.”

“Just my two cents worth, Love, but I really think that a little self gratification is preferable to starting a life of crime,” he said seriously.

“Yeah, well, that’s probably true,” she said, her embarrassment fading a bit.  But that wasn’t necessarily a good thing, because as the embarrassment faded, the uncomfortable ache between her legs made itself known again.  Squirming around, as Buffy tried to find relief.

To her mortification, her wiggles pressed her more fully into Angel, who – she realized with a gasp – was *extremely* aroused.  He groaned involuntarily as her inner thigh pressed against his erection.

He grabbed her thighs firmly, effectively immobilizing her.  He breathed deeply through clenched teeth for several long moments.  When he seemed to have himself a little more under control, he pulled her upper body flush against his chest, burying his head in the space where her neck met her shoulder.

“Buffy,” he said, his voice muffled, “it’s not a dirty thing.  Touching myself when I think about you is beautiful.  It’s a poor substitute for actually being with you, but it’s as close as I can get without putting you in danger.”

At the rasp of raw longing in his voice, Buffy found she was no longer ashamed.  Angel wanted her, she wanted him.  She was tired of being nervous and embarrassed.  How many nights had she woken up with the agony of unfulfilled longing as a result of intensely erotic dreams she had of him?  Why not make the best of a bad situation?

Tentatively she ran her fingers through the hair at the base of his skull, delicately tickling his scalp.  “Show me,” she breathed softly into his ear, her heart pounding violently from the unexpected thrill of uttering those words.

Pulling his head back so he could look at her face, Angel regarded her carefully.  “Are you sure, Buffy?” he asked quietly.

Looking directly into his eyes, she found her nerve wavered.  She couldn’t speak so she nodded her assent, blushing furiously.  Holding her gaze, he nodded in return.  He knew she was still uneasy, but that her words were sincere.  He could feel her pounding heart, he could smell her increasing arousal, but more importantly he just *knew*.

With very deliberate motions, Angel moved his hand to the fly of his black slacks.  Her eyes followed his motions avidly.  He was acutely aware of her ragged breathing and the growing dampness between her legs.  To Buffy, it seemed as if everything was moving in slow motion.  She almost jumped at the sound of the zipper being pulled down.

She couldn’t help but gasp as he worked the material down his hips and his cock sprang free.  He was huge.  She’d known he was big, but on their one night together, she hadn’t seen him.  It had been dark, they’d been under the covers.  Somehow she’d missed the fact that he was enormous.  He looked painfully hard, and the tip was glistening with precum.

He didn’t move to touch himself, instead holding still for her visual inspection.

“You’re not,” she faltered, licking her dry lips, as she attempted to channel her inner slut, ”circumcised.”

“No,” he answered quietly.  “Is that a problem?”

Her head popped up and she met his gaze.  It took her a moment to realize he was teasing her.  “No,” she said lightly, “I’ve just never seen one like that.”

He smiled, and then frowned.  “What do you mean ‘like that’?” he asked pointedly.

“Oh,” she said seriously,  “all the others looked different.”

“All *what* others?” he growled.

Smiling wickedly, she brushed her fingers up the length of him.  He hissed, his eyes scrunching shut involuntarily.  As she continued to touch him lightly, Buffy leaned forward and whispered huskily in his ear, “The ones on the internet, Angel.”

She wasn’t real sure he heard anything she said.  His entire body was taut, his eyes were still shut and he seemed to be concentrating very hard.  Stopping her motions, she gently clasped his hand and wrapped his fingers around his cock.

“Show me,” she breathed in his ear again.

Opening his eyes, he looked at her for a long moment.  “Watch,” he directed.

And she did.

She was amazed as he circled his engorged flesh with his hand and began to pump.  Her tiny little fingers wouldn’t have fit around his girth, but his long, elegant digits did. He stroked with long, even motions of his hand.  As he worked himself up, more precum glistened on the head of his cock, dribbling down his length, lubricating and easing the motions of his hand.

Leaning forward again, Buffy kissed his neck roughly, using her blunt teeth to bite his tender flesh.  He moaned, his hips surging up at the contact as he moved his head to the side to allow her better access.  She complied with his silent plea, scraping her teeth across his flesh, but never taking her eyes off of his hand.

Slowly unbuttoning his shirt, Buffy moved the material to the sides and ran her fingernails over his pebbled nipples.  He moaned again, a hoarse, needy sound.  Placing her hand over the one he was using to stroke himself, she aided his motions, gently caressing the skin on the back of his hand.  As he began to  pant for breath, she worked her way up his neck to his earlobe, biting down gently and whispering, “Come for me, Baby.”

That was it.

As soon as the words were out of her hot little mouth, the muscles of his body corded and he made a noise somewhere between a growl and a whimper as he came.  Cum spilled over his fingertips and into the soft hair at the base of his cock.

Gasping for breath, he noticed the decidedly pleased expression on Buffy’s face.  “Did you like that?” he asked lightly.

Cocking an eyebrow at him, she answered saucily, “Not as much as you did.”

He smirked at her and then looked down at himself.  “Damn,” he said as he surveyed the mess.  “Could you hand me a –“

His words choked off as Buffy gently clasped his wrist, bringing his hand even with her face.  He watched, completely enraptured as her scalding hot tongue snaked out to lap the milky substance from his fingers.  She was very thorough.  After she’d cleaned off all of the visible traces, she sucked each of his digits into her mouth making sure she got every last drop.

He couldn’t talk.  He kept making these little “Bu, Bu, Bu,“ noises, but no complete words came out.  As she pushed his upper body farther back into the cushions of the couch so she could move down his body and lick up the rest of what he had spilled, she heard him utter a few words in Gaelic that she knew had to be curses.

Points for Buffy.  He couldn’t talk, and when he did, it was in his native language.

As her nose was pressed into the soft hair around his sex, she couldn’t help but realized he was getting hard again.

Sitting up to regard him, she said calmly, “Honey, I thought we just took care of that.”

She couldn't help but giggle at his answering growl.

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