"Glove - Like a Magnet"

Author: Vatrixsta Cruden
Contact: trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: "Crystal" belongs to Stevie Nicks.
Dedication: To the BEST nitpicky beta readers IN THE WORLD! < big kisses > You guys rock! And you're so prompt, too!

Do you always trust your first initial feeling
Special knowledge holds truth bears believing
I turned around
And the water was closing all around
Like a glove
Like the love that had finally, finally found me
Then I knew
In the crystalline knowledge of you
Drove me through the mountains
Through the crystal-like clear water fountain
Drove me like a magnet
To the sea

They snuck inside the back of the hotel, giggling <and groping and sighing and fucking =aching= for her> like teenagers cutting fifth period to go to a concert.

Their bedroom was tucked at the end of a long hallway, near the emergency <not like the elevator worked anyway> stairwell. The door closed and locked behind them, Angel slid his arms around Buffy and backed her into the wall. His hands moved to the back of the little <indecent, non-existent> top she wore; undid the strings that held the tank together. She wore no bra, and once the scrap of brown cotton had fallen to the floor, she stood before him bared from the waist up, staring at him through half-closed <drugged, like I feel, always drugged on her, lost in her> eyelids.

Dear God, she was beautiful. Blonde hair falling around impossibly porcelain pale cheeks, single golden locks obscuring the milky white of her skin from his gaze. His hands traced a path up her hips, over the rough denim of her jeans until his palms felt nothing but soft flesh. Up, up, up he moved, until he reached the cascade of hair that covered her. Hands sliding smoothly, lost in the feel of Buffy <sunshine and perfection and beauty and salvation and home> beneath his hands, he pushed her hair behind her shoulders.

As he gazed at her half-naked form <breasts that perfect and beautiful should be a sin> Angel's entire body throbbed with the desire to be closer to her, to be a part of her. Men died <sometimes three or four times> for a single taste of everything Buffy was. Surely by now, he was entitled to a tiny slice of heaven. Buffy apparently agreed, because her tiny hands found the hem of his sweater and she pulled it roughly over his head.

Angel understood everything that had gone on before. He knew all the pain they'd felt, the endless, aching years they'd spent being unable to touch one another the way they'd longed to. It just didn't seem to apply to this very moment, where all he felt <touched, tasted, smelt, wanted, needed, loved> was her skin <her heart, her soul, her whole being belonging to me, only me, always me> and all he wanted was to make love to her in joy and have her remember it.

Remembered sadness was bittersweet at best in that moment <like dark chocolate and preferably crunchy peanut butter>. It was as though he simply couldn't summon the proper amount of pain that normally accompanied his memories of that lost <perfect, so fucking perfect like her skin on mine, her breathy, needy-kitten sounds of want> day.

His decision to take it all back <away> was one that had weighed heavily on his mind <heart and soul> over the past year and a half. Sometimes he couldn't quite believe it had been that long since he loved, and touched, and tasted her with only the pure white stain of love and happiness to fuel his need.

In recent weeks, he'd had the opportunity to gorge himself on her body <her blood>. He'd been tied up the first time, so one could argue he hadn't been able to get his fill of her then. The second time, though . . . they'd been trapped inside by the sun all. fucking. day. He knew the hot buttons on her body better than he knew his own. Still, as intense <fucking rhapsodic> as it had been, there had been an element missing, the very thing he craved now most of all.

Happiness. Joy. Pure, perfect love.

There was a certain poetic <tragic, unfair, goddamn EVIL> irony that the source of his greatest joy, and his most agonizing pain, should not only come from the same woman, but that she also had no earthly idea the depths of it all. Being the only man <beast, demon, animal, there was no difference, was there?> to remember the entire world they'd formed on his soft sheets for one perfect afternoon was sometimes more pain than his tired soul could carry. If he'd known then what he knew now, how it all would progress, would he make the same choice again?

He knew his thoughts at the time had been simple. Her life <her life, my life, they were the same> was the most precious thing in the world to him. Her life <my life> was worth more than all the chocolate kisses <sticky fingers on my belly, fairy laughter against my throat, warm, wet comfort all around me> in the world. Even Buffy's chocolate kisses. Besides, he'd thought at the time, the burden couldn't be as great as it seemed.

After all, what was one more weight to an already unbearably heavy load?

All that pain and worry seemed to flit through his mind faster than it took his fingertips to trace the edge of her collarbone.

Then, miraculously, it was gone.

When he tried to focus on all the thoughts <and pains and guilts and regrets> in his head, he found not a single one of them substantial enough to hold form. Doubts, sorrows, insecurities -- all slipped through his fingers like cool water until he was left with nothing but his want <need, lust, indescribable love> and his joy <rapture, ecstasy, unadulterated bliss> for, in, with and because of Buffy.

There's only joy here, he thought, bending to sip at the silk of her throat. There's only bliss in her arms.

Those arms were wrapped around his back, pulling at his shirt until it came free of his pants and she could pull it free of his body. Tiny hands clutched and pulled at his back, his hair, and her perfect, cool, wet mouth met his again, and again, soft, long, sipping kisses that seared his soul. His hands moved to her waist, teased her belly, and he smiled against her laughing mouth as she half-heartedly tried to escape his tormenting fingers.

He felt as though he could gladly spend eternity listening to her laugh.

Soon, though, the need for more -- more of her skin and her laughter and her want -- consumed him and his hands moved to the button on her jeans. The fly was stuck, and they both laughed until she'd had enough and ripped the zipper open with a burst of inhuman strength.

With a groan, he sunk to his knees before her, pulled at her jeans and bright purple bikini briefs as he nuzzled his face into the soft skin of her stomach. His love . . . his Goddess. God did not want him, and so Angel decided in that moment, he would worship Buffy. He would pledge love and fealty at her feet. Daily, he would give thanks for her, show her all the ways she filled up his empty shell of a being. He would show her that she made him see things he'd been blind to before. With her in his life, it made him realized that THIS was what all the poems were written about. THIS was the point to it all, the reason for everything . . .

Brushing his lips against the sodden curls below her stomach, Angel felt the depth of emotion in every sonnet, every love song, every pure expression of love and want the world had ever known. Human, his taste buds had been stronger, and the act of sipping the juices that fairly wept from her body had been ambrosial. He hadn't been able to smell her like this, though.

His predator's senses were screaming at being overpowered by the sweet, musky scent of her arousal. He took his time inhaling her, brushing his cheeks back and forth over the fronts of her thighs, her bristly hair, the indent of her waist. His tongue came out to play and he began tasting her skin, tiny licks like she'd taken of her ice cream earlier.

Buffy freed one of her legs from the jeans pooled at her ankles, ran her calf up and down his side. Then she brought her little foot between their bodies and curled it around the erection tenting his pants. He growled against the sharp point of her hip, then nibbled at it. Her toes proved nearly as dexterous as her fingers. They wiggled up and down his cloth-covered erection until he was purring against her.

Angel became lost in sensation, until the scent of her broke through the haze of pleasure consuming him. Taking her calf firmly in hand, Angel slung it over his shoulder until he could press his face to the very inside of her thigh without doing more than turning his head. He lent her balance by gripping her rear end in his hands and, without further preamble, brought his mouth to her cool, wet folds.

Her soft cry pierced the air as he laved her with his tongue, and tiny toes dug into the skin of his back. There was something almost soothing about this, he thought, something calming about giving her pleasure without the fog of his own need clouding the issue. Honestly, he could spend eternity here, too, suckling at her clit, lapping up the abundant juices she gave off like a river, with nothing but the wet sounds his mouth made and her breathy cries that sounded a little like his name as accompaniment.

Minutes passed and Angel couldn't be bothered to notice. Buffy's hips were restlessly thrusting against his mouth, her leg tightening and loosening over his shoulder. Her hands had found purchase in his hair, her nails digging into his scalp, and her once breathy little cries of pleasure had become high, keening expressions of need.

Amazing, how he could feel her come. The night of her seventeenth birthday, he'd been able to detect her pulse, her heartbeat, with his keen, superhuman senses. He'd known the moment of her climax by the rapid increase of blood flowing through her veins. On that day that never was, as a human being, he'd been too focused with how different everything felt now that he was ALIVE to notice whether or not he'd been able to feel her orgasm as clearly as he felt his own.

The other two times they'd mated in recent weeks, there hadn't been anything much more than raw, animal lust connecting them.

But this . . . this was exquisite. Her pleasure washed over him in waves, and the wetness she gushed into his mouth was flavored slightly sweeter than it had been before. It was amazing, and Angel wanted to make it happen again, so he refocused his efforts. His tongue concentrated on patches of her drenched flesh he'd only glossed over earlier. In no time at all, he brought her to another peak, and sure enough, her pleasure washed through his body as it washed through her own.

It wasn't as intense as an orgasm; rather, it was like that feeling just after the climax has passed. A warm, tingly feeling that spread through his entire body, head to toe, and if it felt this good to HIM, what must she be feeling?

He was about to go for a third time, when Buffy had apparently had enough. Her leg slipped off his shoulder and knocked him off balance so that he fell to the floor. With a growl, she leapt after him, straddled his waist, and ground her crotch against his trapped cock.

Groaning, Angel thrust against her. Her hands closed around his wrists and kept his arms pinned above his head. There was a mischievous grin on her face, and Angel felt happier than he could ever remember being. Buffy slid up his body, and Angel mourned the loss of her against his throbbing shaft,
but her wetness was seeping out all over his belly, and she was rubbing herself against him and . . . what had he been thinking about?

Her mouth found his and he opened for her, accepted her temporary dominance with an excruciating amount of pleasure. She was making love to him, and he tried to remember if he'd ever been made love to in two hundred and forty-eight years. He couldn't recall a single occasion, neither before nor
after he was turned. Of course, considering he'd never loved anyone but Buffy, that wasn't entirely surprising.

And every time he and Buffy had been together -- when she hadn't been evil -- he'd been in control of things. She was always so inexperienced that she'd been afraid of taking the lead. Now, though, she seemed more than eager, and Angel felt a silly grin spread across his face. She wanted to make love to him.

"Whatcha smilin' about?" she asked adorably, brushing their noses together.

"You're making love to me," he said softly, wonderingly. It didn't seem possible that someone as pure and perfect and beautiful as her would want to love him.

"That's the plan," she confirmed around a giggle. Her mouth attached itself to the side of his neck and he nearly came from her blunt teeth pulling at his jugular.

All too soon, she moved away, and as she dragged her open mouth across his chest, her hands moved his captive arms lower and lower.

When she reached the waist of his pants, she grinned up at him, then bent her head to him. Her teeth closed around the buckle of his belt, and she tugged. Miraculously, after a few minutes of the most pleasant torture he'd ever endured, her chin bumping against his near-painful erection as her jaw worked at his belt, it came free and she seemed inordinately pleased with herself.

The tight button on his pants proved more difficult, and after a few moments' valiant effort, she seemed to admit defeat.

"Keep them there," she ordered quietly, abandoning his wrists to undo his button with her fingers.

Once she'd rid him of his pants and boxers, her mouth returned to him. Her lips pressed tiny, fleeting kisses to every inch of his skin. She worked down his legs, to his feet and calves, swirled her tongue between his toes, then moved back up to his hips. Finally, she placed a gentle, open-mouthed kiss over the head of his cock. Her tongue darted out to lick up the moisture that wept from the tip, and Angel's obedience saw its own end.

Growling softly, his hands found her hair, and he tugged her up his body. Her eager mouth plundered his, and he gave as good as he got. His erection was nestled between the cheeks of her ass, and she was moving up and down, stroking him.

"What do you want, my love?" she whispered into his ear, darting her tongue out to lick at the tender shell.

"You," he grunted. "Only you. Always you."

"You have me," she assured him as she sat back, hovered above his cock. Her hand was stroking him softly. "Always."

That unexpectedly brought tears to his eyes, because he could remember a time when he'd wanted her to belong to him, just as he'd belonged to her; a time when she hadn't; because he hadn't been able to claim her. He was so damned happy that time had passed, and his joy only grew as she sank down on him with one, fluid motion.

Now he was surrounded in her, consumed by her, and consumption had never felt so liberating. Her hands moved to his again, and she twined their fingers together, held their arms out to balance herself as she oh-so-slowly began to rock against him. Up, down, back, forth, circle; up, down, back, forth, circle. His fingers squeezed hers tightly, and she took pity on him, brought their joined hands to either side of her hips and let his rest there.

Her own hands she brought to his chest. Her fingers dug into his pectorals just as his dug into her hips, and the rhythm of their lower bodies increased pace. Her hair had fallen across her chest again, and every time she thrust forward, her nipples peeked at him, taunted him. He was in no mood to be teased, and he rose, brought his knees up to support her back and bent his head to her chest.

Buffy cried out softly as his mouth closed around one of her nipples and tugged at it roughly. Their new angle forced his penetration of her deeper, and he snarled against her flesh. Her hands left his chest and sunk into his hair; held his head to her breast as their lower bodies continued to writhe. There was no separation for them now; their bodies were fused together, grinding against one another, refusing to be separated.

He would never be separated from her again, Angel thought dazedly. There was no need. She was his, he was hers, and that's all there was to it. What point would there be to his new religion if he couldn't worship at Buffy's altar daily?

Their mating went on and on, both striving for completion, both secretly never wanting to attain it. It was the wanting that was so addictive, and so much of their relationship had been made up of the endless, aching need for that which they could never have. There was an added pleasure, knowing they could take their release at any moment, but instead choosing to wait so that they might prolong this blessed agony.

Borrowed blood called to Angel from beneath Buffy's skin. It rushed to the surface, giving her the illusion of blushing. Her skin was sticky and it had always fascinated him how dead things could still sweat. His mouth released its captive prize and trailed up her breastbone until he found the jugular that no longer beat with her life, but enticed him all the same

"Please," she whispered, pressing her palm to his head. "Angel, please, please . . ."

His face shifted and it was the most natural thing in the world to sink his fangs into her butter-soft skin. And, God, she still tasted the same. It didn't seem possible that she could, but somehow, Buffy managed it. Her ambrosial blood coursed down his throat, and his pleasure was complete when he felt her own fangs sink into the side of his neck.

They were wrapped around each other, the fronts of his thighs to her backside, her legs wrapped securely around his waist, his cock so deep inside her, he swore he could feel it moving from where their stomachs touched. One of his hands was buried in her hair, the other running up and down her back as the pleasure became so intense, he feared he might black out. Her hands returned the favor, and she was moaning and screaming against the side of his neck (or maybe that was him) and if he thought feeling her come had been an experience worth dying for, they could stake him right now after knowing this tiny shred of paradise.

He must have blacked out for a moment, because the next clear sensation he felt was Buffy's little tongue lapping at the wound on his neck. Emerging from his stupor, he mimicked her actions, his arms wrapping around her back to hold her closer as he attended to the tiny hurt he'd caused.

This only served to make things worse, however, because feeling Buffy's tongue anywhere on his body had him hard as a rock again in minutes.

Tightening his hold around her back, he managed to stand without dislodging her, and she didn't seem surprised or at all worried about her current position -- instead, she crossed her ankles behind his back, and held onto him like a monkey. The motions of her mouth on his neck ceased to be soothing, and she started doing a Hoover impression instead.

Angel barely made it to the bed. Only the thought of taking her in what he'd begun to privately think of as their conjugal bed propelled him forward, instead of simply drilling her up against the nearest wall. He'd belonged to her, been married to her, since the night of her seventeenth birthday. It was something he'd never told her he felt in his heart, and as he crashed to their bed with her, he silently vowed to do so at the next convenient moment.

At some future point when she wasn't massaging his cock with her incredibly flexible inner muscles.

The sheets were cream colored silk, and as he propped himself up on his elbows, he took a moment to admire the beautiful contrast with Buffy's stark white skin. His hands moved up to frame her face, and he pushed her back so his view was unobstructed. Her eyes were wide and unafraid, filled with so much love he thought he might turn to dust, right here in her embrace.

There was nowhere else in the world he'd rather die.

"You make me feel . . ." He dropped his head to the pillow, nuzzled her cheek with his own softly.

"What?" she cooed, her hands moving up and down his back. Her touch was demanding and soothing in equal measures. Always such confusion between them, such conflicting desires. Speed up, slow down, love, kill, more, too much . . .

"You make me feel alive," he answered softly as he moved his head to regard her solemnly. "You make me feel human."

"Me too," she whispered, tears leaking from the corners of her sea-storm eyes.

His lips and tongue caught every one, swallowed them as the consecration he had been denied for a hundred years now. Tears fell from his own eyes, and he felt her soft little mouth over his cheeks, his closed lids, until all evidence of them were gone. He was healed and blessed and died in her arms, only to be re-born a man, a =real= man as he began to make love to her anew with all the joy in his resurrected heart.

How the faces of love have changed turning
the pages
And I have changed oh, but you . . . you remain
ageless
I turned around
And the water was closing all around
Like a glove
Like the love that had finally, finally found me
And I knew
In the crystalline knowledge of you
Drove me through the mountains
Through the crystal-like clear water fountains
Drove me like a magnet
To the sea

The End

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