Snow (sweptawaybayou) wrote,

Angel ~ The Art Of Passion

No. I don't own this character.

But what I wouldn't give to spend the night with him.

Contains ~ Het, slash, BDSM

Another Not For Profit Venture by Snow

Angel considered foreplay an art. In very much the same way Angelus had relished torture. Perhaps it had been replaced as his signature. Instead of leaving trails of cold, stiffened, viscously mutilated and blood drained bodies, now he left weakened, sweaty, exhausted, emotionally drained bodies. Instead of spending hours and days perfecting the many ways he could bring a human to the very point of death, he spent that same amount of time learning just how very many ways he could create the perfect moment of passion over and over for another person.

And since his little mistake with Buffy, he’d learned how to keep that singular moment away from himself. How to distance himself from his own orgasm. From his own happiness.

He was never in a hurry. After all, he’d lived long enough to appreciate time for what it was. Fleeting. Temporary. Inevitable. The only instance that he let it intrude was when he took someone outside. Then the vampire in him never let him play with the dawn. But when he was inside? In a secure environment? He rarely let it last less than twenty-four hours.

Men. Women. It had never mattered to him. Chemistry. Physical attractions. Pheromones. That was it. A casual glance. A meaningful touch. A heated conversation. Preludes to passion. Overtures to orgasms. Introductions to intensity.

He always started the seduction before he was even alone with his victim. He would let them know his intentions before they even knew that they were interested. A subtle crowding of personal space. A drawing out with questions. Holding a stare just too long. And he knew he could feel the temperature change around him. Around them. The promise of desire.

When the time came that they were alone, he would stalk his willing prey. Sometimes talking, bantering, arguing. Letting them think he was distracted as he moved, circling. Feeling his own muscles tighten, his step become lighter, his senses heightening.

Then he would be there. Right there in front of them. Taking the moment. Taking whatever feeble grasp of control they might’ve thought they’d had on the situation. A kiss. Gentle. Caress. So light that they strained to feel it. Using only the very tips of his fingers. The jaw line, the cheekbones. Soft as silk or the rasp of stubble. Rare that anyone of them was ever his height, he learned to bend down without overwhelming. Listen to the rapid beat of their hearts, little rabbits in a fox’s den.

Slow. Kind. Let them know that they were safe. Fear didn’t do it for him anymore. Terror did not turn him on. He wanted his lovers to welcome him. Invite him. The begging always came later.

Angel loved the act of undressing. The baring of skin, the most private of parts. Unless they objected, he took this action and made it his. The feel of different fabrics in his hands. The buttons, the zippers, the tiny hooks found on fancy silk dresses. The very many ways people had found to keep themselves hidden behind fashion.

He never turned off the light. Even though he could still see in the dark, he wanted his guest to see him see them. To watch the desire they created in him. To understand he wanted them.

Naked now. Perfume and cologne and heat rising off the flesh. The hairs on the backs of their necks standing at attention. The thump, thump, thump of the blood rushing through them. Kisses again. More insistent this time. Not as gentle. His tongue intruding into their mouth, feeling their teeth. Breathing in their exhaled gasps. Then pulling them into his embrace. Cold skin against hot. Bumping cocks, grinding pelvises, scraping chests, pressing breasts. Letting the touches be returned. Feeling their callused/soft/ tiny/strong hands run over his shoulders, down his rounded arms, bring him closer.

Leaving bruised, reddened lips behind he would move on to earlobes and temples. His mouth warm now from the panting breaths he’d stolen. His kisses more like licks on closed eyelids and foreheads. Then the moment of trust when he’d venture to the neck, the collarbone. Always feeling the second of panic, tightened fingers on his biceps, a tripping of the heartbeat when he put his mouth against the artery. Skin suddenly slick with sweat, breath held in. He didn’t linger there, just took a taste.

It was a test.

This is the moment they could choose. Sleep with the vampire. Know what I am. What I could do. What the demon in me cries out for. Take the pleasure I’m offering you. Trust in my control. Trust me.

He would take a step back, look into open eyes.


What his lover’s would see when they stared back was Angel’s calm, patient brown eyes. His face expressionless, open. And they would know that they could take that choice, move away, get dressed, go back to whatever life they came from and nothing would change between them. He would not hold a grudge, would never mention this again. They could return to casual friendship and this would never be an issue.

But it would never be offered again.

When they stayed, they would see his lips curve into that familiar, yet not seen enough smile and he would take them to the nearest bed, couch, thickly carpeted floor. Lay them down. Stand over them with his cock jutting out in front of him. His skin so white, so pale he could be a marble statue.

There was no turning back now. No stopping for a phone call, no interruptions at the door. Short of fire or attack this was where you were. And Angel was in charge.

He would get down beside them, let them touch him, but not distract him.

Angel always made the men come twice, the women three times before he took them. He would start with his hands, exploring. Finding the surprising ticklish spots, so he’d know to avoid them later, finding the wildly different erogenous places so he’d know where to concentrate. A light caress behind the knee of a woman, the inner thigh of a man. Under the arm, the back of the neck. And nearly always the nipples. Too much attention cannot be given to biting and licking here. The flush of the chest, the blood being called to the surface. The soft moans, lips bitten until he could smell blood above him.

Moving down. To cocks and balls, clitoris and vagina. The musky, salty, burning heat there. Sometimes letting their hands guide him, sometimes holding their wrists down. He would suck and tongue and tease. Scrape his teeth on sensitive parts. Bury his face in the warmth. Listen as they cried his name, thrashing above him. And just keep going. Taking them beyond where they’d ever been before, making the passion rise again and again. Incoherent words, blasphemous curses, crying.

Occasionally he played. Held them down, tying arms and legs with silken scarves to iron bedposts. Using tools that had been developed in darker times by humans proclaiming religious superiority over each other and were now toys designed to bring the sharp clarity of pain to the chaos of pleasure.

Teasing them. Bringing them up to the crest of a wave only to back off, take his ministrations elsewhere on their body. Ignoring the tears, the pleads, the clutching hands. The scratch of fingernails drawing his own blood. Then just when they were sure he would never let the release come, giving in.

When they thought they were spent, when they lay satiated and soaked in their own juices, then Angel would indulge himself. Pushing his throbbing, aching cock into tight, fiery, wet places, using his finger and hands to bring them to completion again, just so he could feel it from the inside.

Licking up the sweat that pooled in the small of their back when he took them from behind. Gripping their hips, leaving bruises that would be there for weeks. Smashing them back into the bed or floor and holding their faces in his hands, making them look in his eyes as he came in hard, shuddering thrusts on top of them. Filling them with his cold semen, kissing them when he was done, to silence their quiet whispers of love and life and devotion and promises.

Reveling in the body heat he’d stolen from them, his skin temperature almost normal. Almost human.

Then finally letting them drop into a deep, exhausted sleep. Angel would pull them close, his cock still hard against them, his arms thrown possessively around them. His face as smooth, as expressionless as ever.

He would close his eyes and listen to the beat of their heart. The breath in their lungs. And dream of when he was human.

Feedback welcomed.
Good feedback loved and cuddled and fed dark chocolate strawberries.
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