Fragile Ecstasy

DISCLAIMER: They're not mine; they belong to a bunch of suits who probably never imagined them like this.
TIMELINE: Mostly irrelevant, but future.
SPOILERS: Nope.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my first smut. Ever. Be warned.
FEEDBACK: Is even more appreciated than usual. Be gentle.
RATING: NC-17.
DEDICATION: Trix... for all the enthusiasm < g >. And the title.

Buffy walked into the Bronze, scanning the thin crowd. It was late; early morning at least, and the only clubbers left were the insomniacs, junkies //vampires, none around tonight// and people without watches. Mostly younger than her... the clientele seemed younger every time she went in. It would be annoying, the reminder that she was getting older, but it was more a badge of pride.

Slayers didn't usually live even close to her age. And yet, here she was, graduated from university, running Angel Investigations: Sunnydale, and still slaying, both as part of the job and freelance //long-short nights on the hunt, the search and kill singing through her veins, bloodlust as violent as that of any vampire//.

She knew she still appeared younger than she was. It was a major source of irritation to her - and amusement to everyone else - that clubs in LA still carded her on occasion.

And then, of course, there was the attention of the college students, every time she came in here; not-quite-boy, not-yet-man //not man// eyes raking hungrily over her lithe form, taking in the long blonde hair and blue eyes and the tight leather or silk or velvet she often dressed in //Angel's hands, fabric dragged sensually over her skin//.

One was doing it now. Sitting alone at a table sipping a beer; handsome enough, she supposed, looking him over with one piercing fast glance. He noticed her look, misinterpreted it, made to get up. She flashed him a genuine, dazzling smile, parting moist red lips over white teeth //too long unkissed//, and lifted a golden arm to run a hand through her hair. He picked up what she'd intended him to get from the discreet movement - the flash of the diamond on the third finger of her left hand //'Angel?' 'I'm doing it traditionally... will you marry me?'//. He couldn't possibly have made out the other ring resting there, the platinum claddagh, but it was there, as much a part of her finger as the silver-painted nail.

She walked over to the bar, smooth and quick despite wearing four-inch boots. She dropped gracefully onto a barstool and waited for the bartender to notice her //look but don't touch//.

It never took very long.

As she waited for her vodka, she fidgeted restlessly, hyped up from her hunt... the older she got, the more adrenaline she pumped for each kill and the longer it took her to relax //teeth and tongues and hard, satiating pumps while she writhed with abandon//. She leaned back onto the bar and the coolness against the bare skin of her back - she wore only a flimsy halter above the again-fashionable mini - at once soothed her and inflamed her.

Coolness reminded her of Angel. And being reminded of Angel, especially when she was in this mood, never failed to get her hot //'Ice? Aren't you cold enough?' 'You're not.'//.

She hated having to spend time away from him, and hated that she had to do it so frequently. The Council insisted that she stayed in Sunnydale, though she actually did for Dawn (who to everyone's surprise had stayed in Sunnydale for college) and the visions Cordelia received were still placed in LA... and so during the week Buffy tossed and turned in a lonely bed while her mate - her husband - did the same in the City of Angels. She slept best snuggled against his broad, chilly //fiery// chest, arm across his stomach, or spooned with her back to his front, or sprawled across his larger, harder body, preferably held deep within her own //dragging through hazy sleep from a pleasant dream to a far more pleasant reality//.

She slept best with *him*, period. Especially during her period, in fact.

And they were stuck agonisingly close together, yet torturously far apart.

She hadn't been much of a dirty talker with any of her other lovers - it had always seemed vaguely 'wrong' to be talking while she did *that*, and it still seemed like a slightly ridiculous thing to do when she wasn't actually *doing* it and hearing his deep, velvety tones almost vibrate through her //early on... long, expensive silences, night-long conversations saying the world through slow breaths over an open phone line//, but necessity had forced her to become quickly expert with Angel, and his own expertise and sweet, gentle encouragement had quickly bulldozed her inhibitions //'I don't think so.' 'Don't you think about me?' 'Of course I do.' 'Well then.' 'Well, nothing. I'm not...' 'Let me convince you.' 'I don't... oh, God, there! Okay.'//. Angel had bulldozed most of her inhibitions... and the thing was, it was always at *her request*. Not that she usually had to ask, but - she didn't even want to know where he'd picked up most of his tricks. She hoped most of it was just natural talent. Certainly Mother Nature had been //more than// generous in other ways.

She felt the familiar clenching deep within her womb and squirmed uncomfortably on the seat, subconsciously pressing against the cold bar. Angel probably wouldn't be home, by the phone, for a while, so she might as well finish her drink... but somewhere else.

Scanning the room, she noticed her 'friend' by the entrance was gone and that there was no one visible on the upstairs balcony. She picked up her glass and carried it up the spiral stairs, finishing on the top floor; she could see most of the club from here, leaning against the waist-high railing, balanced precariously on her spike heels //'Remind me... which of us in this relationship is supposed to have the leather fetish?' 'We both do. On each other.'//.

Toying with her glass, she pulled out a cube of rapidly melting ice, running it over her pink cheeks. Again, it reminded her of Angel, and she recalled their conversation the previous night.

"So what are you wearing?"

She'd laughed. "That was pathetic. You're supposed to have a great erotic imagination, lover."

"Am I?" He'd sounded playfully innocent. "Why?"

"Age and... past experience and... well, pretty much just the past experience."

"You flatter me."

"You flatten me."

"I wish," he'd sounded wistful... lonely for her, and she'd felt a pang of need - not, for once, to have him, just to have him there with her, for *Angel* //holding her gently, soothing away her tears and her fears// - so sharp that she'd gasped softly out loud.

He'd heard. "Are you okay?"

"I miss you."

"I miss you too, love. A couple more days."

"Too long," she'd pouted.

"I know," he'd sounded distracted, and she'd known he was seeing her pout, imagining capturing her plump bottom lip and sucking on it until she squealed and kissed him properly, plunging her tongue into his mouth. She never failed to feel his kisses all over her body... she got more aroused from his passionate assaults on her lips or the gentle caresses of mouth on mouth he so enjoyed //'Don't analyse, Buffy. Feel.'// than she had with the entire sexual act with other guys. His body was so perfectly attuned to hers, and hers so nearly-painfully sensitive to his... casual attitudes had told her sex could be great without love, but making love with Angel had taught her it was best when she was expressing the love she felt for him //every cell of her body existing only to be wrapped around, melded with, his//, and feeling his love for her in every sweep of worshipful, expert hands over her skin and every stroke of thick cock in her core.

"I want you," she'd said plainly. "I want you *here*."

"I want to be there, Buffy," he'd answered //is there anywhere else?//. "You know I do."

"You have nightmares," she'd whispered.

"You chase them away," he'd replied, and it was true; Cordelia had told her of the nightmares he'd suffered since Gunn was killed, hell nightmares or killing nightmares or nightmares of the death, but he never had them in her bed //'Angel? It's late.' 'I'm sorry... I just... wanted to hear your voice.' 'Never be sorry for needing me.'//. "I dream of you, Buffy."

"How do you dream of me?" she'd said, dragging her sleep t-shirt //Angel's t-shirt, pleasantly worn and suffused with his musky scent// over her head and lying back on the bed. She never changed the sheets through the week. She could smell him there.

"In the sun," he'd said, his voice smooth and deep //human, with you, like you//. "On the beach, sunbathing-"

"Naked?"

He'd laughed and she'd relished it //her *other* purpose in life... make Angel smile//. "No, not naked. Practically naked. But it's an empty beach, and I've been swimming and I wake you because I'm all wet when I lean down to kiss you."

"That's okay," she'd murmured, almost able to feel the sun beating hot on her body. "I like to kiss you."

"Good, because it's a long one," he'd teased. "Deep and tender... I love the way you run your fingers through my hair when we're kissing, have I ever told you that?"

"No," and suddenly she had felt the texture of his thick, dark hair as it felt brushing against her thighs and stomach, and with that she had imagined the sensation of his lips, and skilled tongue, and carefully blunt teeth nipping at her clit, and she hadn't been able to stop a low cry.

He'd laughed, deep and throaty, happy at her response, and then he'd -

But this *really* wasn't the time (and the place, particularly the open, *public* place) for *those* kinds of musings //alone in her bed, able to taste him and feel him until she opened her eyes//.

Especially when she could go home and coax a rerun out of him.

She set her drink down on the table beside the railing and turned to go.

She was stopped by a hand on either side of hers, holding her in place. She tottered on her heels and a large, hard body pushed against her, anchoring her //keeping her safe//, erection pressed knowingly against the rounded cheeks of her ass and cool chest grazing firmly with her bare back.

She gasped - half shock, half want - and instinctively leaned her head back onto his shoulder and her body back into full contact with his. The hanging front of his shirt, brushing silkily against her sides, made a sensuous contrast with the more familiar texture of his skin //precious soft marble, remembered in excrucatingly erotic detail by her fingertips, less by her mind, from the hours of lush luxury investigation in drowsy bed//. He brought his head down to kiss her and she responded eagerly, curving her arm around his neck to hold him to her and then, mindful of his words the night before, sliding it upwards to tangle in his hair.

He let her take the lead, mauling his lips with her own in her excitement //how could she stand to be away from him//, their tongues tangling wetly as she deepened the kiss. Finally, Buffy pulled back just far enough to speak //words unneeded clutter in the eloquence of their devotion//, though it came out as more of a breathy whisper.

"You're here."

"I've been here for about ten minutes," he said, kissing her again, more softly this time, anointing her lips and cheeks with little butterfly kisses //worship at the altar of Buffy//.

"Why didn't you say?" she said, closing her eyes and letting the soft pleasure of his fond attentions lull her into relaxation //best times during the worst years, hours together without words or forbidden passion, just touching//.

Then she slammed her eyes open, opening her mouth to cry out until his lips slanted over hers again and swallowed it, as his fingers slid deftly over her ass and inside her //greedy for her love and lust//. She wore only a thong, and he bypassed it with little effort, thrusting two fingers up into her dripping heat, primed and ready from her fantasies earlier //unusual, thinking of him always//.

"God, Buffy..." he groaned into her ear, detaching his mouth from hers for a second. He panted harshly into her ear, kissing her earlobe and throat //head arched back in supplication, screaming desperate 'drink me' demands, holding his head to her throat, wanting the animalistic draw, ritualistic feeding from his Mate// and she felt a surge of sheer feminine delight that she and she alone could force this strong a response from him, make him breathe //unnecessary human reflexes relearned for crucial human emotion// and grip her hips punishingly and rub her just... like... that. That this tough, smart man was *hers*.

Angel pressed her more tightly against the railing, and, dizzy, she looked down, suddenly aware of the need to betray nothing to the handful of people wandering around the club below her //variety was the spice of (sex) life//. It sent a rush of savage pleasure through her and she kissed him desperately again //help me hide it//, invading his welcoming mouth with her tongue to stop herself from screaming as she came //fingers not enough//.

He worked her down from the high //almost-violent male pride//, whispering his large, gentle hands over her skin, slick with sweat. Then he let her turn around in the protective circle of his arms //stay in my arms// and press their bodies together tightly, enjoying the slightly rough cotton of her halter against his skin as she rubbed her hardened nipples against the wall of his chest //Slayer energy meets vampire stamina in human desire//.

Their gazes met and Buffy slowly calmed in his embrace, eyes locked to his. She rested her forehead against his and he started to absently sway them to the muted music playing below, his hands resting on the curve of her hips //all woman, soft curves and high power//.

"I love you," she said, her inquisitive fingers slipping into the waistband of his pants //let me take mine//, and he smiled.

"I love you too."

They kissed again, tender and sweet. Kept kissing, tantalising each other with nips and licks and eventually passionate, deep, open-mouth kisses, and now his hands ran through her messy blonde hair //glorious proof of vitality// and she ground against him almost imperceptibly, teasing his hardness.

"They're closing soon," she said, stroking the nape of his neck while he rhythmically sucked at the racing pulse point at the base of her throat, exploring the oft-reopened bite mark //elixir of Buffy// with his tongue and the barest hint of fang.

"How," kiss, "soon?"

"Long enough," and Buffy grabbed Angel's hand and pulled him down the stairs, across the club, and out into the breezy, dark night //melt into the darkness, melt into each other//, ignoring the puzzled stares of the few remaining patrons. She cast around for a moment for a suitable place - not the alley, she always ended up with a sore back from the brick, they wouldn't make it home //she was inventive and he was willing, tenderness was for her bed, his bed, their beds//, those crates were a little too public - and then Angel pulled her over in an unexpected direction.

"Not here!" she gasped with a surprised half-giggle, but then he kissed her again, one hand in her hair //is there any heaven more enchanting than her lips?//, the other rubbing tiny circles of fire at the top of her thigh, her skirt hitched up to indecency, and she stopped caring, concentrating on kissing him back //burning rapture in frost mouth// while she reached above her with both hands and wrapped her fingers around the chain link. He kept kissing her through the height change, their lips melded firmly together, then split away with a ragged gasp of his own when she pulled on slim, muscled arms and wrapped her leather-clad calves around his waist. She tightened her toned legs to bring him closer back to her again, pushing her thinly bound breasts at him in half invitation, half-entreaty.

He shot her a gorgeous, ecstatic grin //victory// as he reached around her neck to untie the slim strings and allow the top to fall, hanging at her waist. At the sight of her breasts, as flushed as the rest of her, he groaned with barely-leashed desire and bent forward to lap and suck at her nipples, skilled fingers and thumb working the one his mouth was not busy with //sweetness and musk and salty moisture//. Bolts of pleasure shot straight through her //losing her body to fragile ecstasy// and she arched, her head thrown back against the wire, exposing her throat, loosening one hand from the fence to clasp it around his shoulders for balance and the adored feel of his skin //adored taste over her tongue, licking all over, copper-salt-bitter spurts and abandoned groans//.

That hand eventually fell to his stomach, working the buckle of his belt, then the buttons of his fly with practised one-handed ease, fumbling only when he bit down on her nipple, gently, with teeth still blunt and eyes flashing golden as he captured her gaze. They froze for a moment //here//, staring at each other //desire//, the silent communion of souls //love// far more immediate //real//, more intimate than their straining, voracious bodies //now//.

He growled, a deep rumble in his chest and she stiffened in desire and instinct... her body screamed at her to go for the wooden crate as a makeshift stake for the vampire //danger to life//, and simultaneously to shudder and dampen further for her mate //drowning deep in craving//. Angel grinned ferally, tracking her response easily through her rapid breaths and thundering heartbeat //smell of vampire fear as his Slayer-fear//, and swooped down to kiss her again, pressing her more tightly against the fence.

His hand slid back under her skirt and he ripped the g-string away from her soaking centre without hesitation //no barriers//. Buffy moaned as his hand brushed against her and redoubled her efforts with his pants, finally managing to free his hardness and clasp her tiny hand around it with an audible sigh of relief... she'd been thinking about him //always// and needed to feel him deep within her, connected to her, *with* her //without him complete, with him completely happy//.

He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, growling lightly //wedded equally to demon as desperate as soul//, hungrily licking the pooling sweat from her skin //living warmth transferred until it could be shared//. He thrust against her, enjoying her breathy whimpers of frustration as she tried to sheath him inside her //let me have you//, torturing himself pleasurably with the wild burning to finish their coupling //continual formality only// he felt in both of them.

When he finally entered her, sliding smooth and powerful, seating himself to the hilt in her tight wetness, they came to a dual standstill //wait for me//, momentarily overcome by the feeling of undeniable homecoming //why am I ever away from you?//. They kissed again passionately as she clenched around him uncontrollably, and then Buffy reached above her again, twining her elegant fingers around the wires, allowing him control //trust//.

He slid out as far as he could while still keeping their bodies plastered together //stay with you, stay with me// and then plunged back, met by the rhythm of her hips as she thrust back to him //keep lovers closest//, rubbing her clit against the base of his cock.

A small part of him remembering the club scant feet away, he thrust quickly, building their pleasure thoroughly and fast. One hand gripped her ass, helping her thrust back onto him //deep inside mind, heart, body and soul//; the other ran masterfully up her body, pausing at her full breasts to fondle the sensitive globes //perfectly shapely//, making her pant into his mouth and throb around him where they were joined.

He cupped her cheek, brushing strands of golden hair off her sweaty forehead //comfort intertwined with carnality//. She keened approvingly at the new, cool sensation on her heated skin //balance her, match her//. He pulled his mouth from hers for a second, ignoring her whimper, looking at her mussed, sweaty //beautiful// face even as his hips jackhammered into hers.

Then his hand was down, slipped between their bodies, and he fingered her clit deliberately //fingers on her clit, eyes on her face, watching the pleasure suffuse her expression, learning her body better than his own//. Now she did scream, his name //all she knew//, her body taut and trembling, suspended from her straining arms, heedless of her name spilling as a litany from his lips as he thrust once more and spilled inside her, her orgasm and squeezing silken walls setting of his own climax //mark and make//.

Coming back to herself //back to him//, Buffy let go of the chain link and wrapped her arms instead around him, letting him bear her weight, which he did easily //weight off her shoulders//, winding a strong arm around her back to hold her up and close to him //couldn't get closer//.

When she had calmed and was no longer overtaken by fine quivers, he let her down, reluctantly setting her on the ground //physical ties strengthening emotional// and contentedly acquiescing to her mumbled, languid demands for a kiss //if he could never join with her again, he could survive as long as he had this, her lips against his, her love with his, soft kisses under harsh moon//, nuzzling her nose against his until their lips met softly.

"When have you..."

"Tomorrow," he said, anticipating her question //too soon//. She gave him a sorrowful look - mere hours before he had to leave her again - and took his hand, letting him lead her gently in the direction for home //home for each other, of each other//.

A night wasn't a lot of time.

//Forever.//

THE END

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