wisdomeagle | ficpost: "Twist, Darling, Twist" Buffy/Angel

Title: "Twist, Darling, Twist"
Fandom: Buffyverse
Pairing: Buffy/Angel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Bodyswap
Spoilers/Timeline: Some time after "Graduation Day"
Disclaimer: Joss owns them.
Notes: For

aaronlisa in the Buffy Round of

hetfic_minis. A kiss, angst, and walking away. No fluff, no Spike.
Summary: Even this is nothing like deep enough.
Wordcount: 1600.

Twist, Darling, Twist

Buffy looks down at Angel's body and swallows the biggest, hottest gulp of coffee that's ever burned her throat. She drops the cup and it bounces, unbroken, on the rug, but she can't stop her hands -- these hands, his hands, hands that have choked and strangled strangers and, long ago, broken the neck of a friend -- from shaking. The sensation of coffee is unfamiliar, too hot, burning through her, and at least it's not blood but -- she would, she could, kill for the taste of blood. She wants it; the craving is internal, familiar. She settles into it, finds the place where hunger resides, and almost smiles. Angel's mouth is too broad and his chin too firm for her to properly do the trick, but twisting it into the right shape reminds her of the delicacy of her own tongue, the strength of Angel's, the leaden, drowning feeling of his kiss. She can't escape. There is no way out, no place to be where she doesn't feel Angel's muscles under her hands, where she can't see Angel when she looks down -- and without even trying, she realizes -- she's getting hard. She. is making herself hard. From being Angel. Or thinking about being Angel. Or being in Angel's body or --

and that's only half.

The other half is looking at her from across the living room with a twisted smile that doesn't belong on her face at all, amused and awed all at once. He shrugs her shoulders. "It's been a long time since I've... seen myself."

"Do you look hot?"

He grins, ignores the question. "I'm in your body, Buffy. I can't help looking... hot." He gulps down that last word like it's the world's sweetest coffee, thickest blood. He's not grinning anymore.

"Oh. God. What are you doing in there?"

But if she's hard, then he must be --

"Sorry?" He shrugs again, puts a wince into it that she doesn't believe. Frank. Unapologetic. She wants in ways that aren't physically possible now, that are too dangerous anyhow -- she stands up and is gigantic -- she can't kiss -- she can't be kissing her ex-boyfriend anyhow, there are a thousand reasons why not, but the biggest one of them --

"You can't lose your soul when it's tucked safely into -- um -- someone else's body? Can you?"

"We shouldn't risk it," he says. "You don't want to mess around with..."

He's standing too, and she knows from the way he's holding himself, twisting his legs, that he's wet, and he's in her arms and she's leaning down and they're kissing, and she doesn't think she can reach deep enough, can't remember what kissing feels like from the other angle but wants to press Angel's tongue so far into her mouth that when she wakes up inside her own body again she'll still be able to feel the weight of it, its heavy demand. If she kisses him well enough her mouth will always be open as wide as Angel's opening it, deep, and wet, and she doesn't have to worry about breathing, just. kissing. so. damn. hard. Angel comes up for air and, gasping, his voice sounding more like hers with every shudder, says, "I want you to fuck me."

"Oh God."

"We shouldn't, I know, but you're -- but this --."

"I don't know how you ever -- didn't. When we were -- because I can't --"

"You get practice."

"We could practice after. I mean. After we --"

"Fucked."

"Angel, stop. I don't -- want to be cleaning my mouth out for --" She doesn't mean don't curse. She means don't want me this hard. I can't bear it.

"So the blowjob is out?"

"Oh God." It's not that -- she hasn't or that -- she wouldn't want to only -- it's Angel and -- "That wouldn't freak you out? Because, um, you know. Sucking a guy's -- I mean. It's just kind of --"

"Kind of what, Buffy?"

"Gay."

"Right now, I don't -- I don't think it really matters I just -- there is no way I don't want to touch you, Buffy. Regardless of your body. Even if it's -- even if it's my body, and frankly that is, uh, wigging me --"

"Oh, please, don't, you're making me sound uncool."

"Okay, then, it's confusing me. To want to touch my own body so much."

She blinks. Bites back a laugh.

"Let's forget I said that." He tries to smile.

"If we could forget --"

Angel leans too close, which is effective for the forgetting and less so for the speech. "What?"

She opens her mouth to say, "Everything," and Angel opens his mouth at the same moment and she could choke on desire, her hand on his hip, curving together just right regardless of who's wearing which body. If she could ever stop loving him, she'd still want him, tall, dark, handsome, unchanging, impenetrable, aloof, mysterious. Even in her own short blonde body, Angel's a mystery, and she can't read his emotions from his eyes just knows, as well as she knows the bends and thrusts and kicks and kills her body's capable of, that he's arching into her to be -- yes, to be fucked, to make love like they never could because he was gentle and she was careful and even though he was centuries older they were both brand new to lovemaking. But no more, no longer -- she bends -- well, his body, the body he inhabits, wills it to bend, to sink into the couch and take its contours; a hand on either thigh she spreads his legs, still trapped in a kiss so tight she has to close her eyes for fear of dying -- for fear that she'll go too far and give herself a fang-shaped scar. It's not sense memory, there's no such thing, and it's not vampire desire, either, not the same as hunger, tightly wound, hidden in her gut. This is all her. Buffy wants to bite Angel, as hard as he bit her, wishes she could mark this body, the one she wears, the body that recovers too quickly from wounds and will never hold a new scar.

She lifts her sensible skirt and tugs down the plain cotton underwear she put on this morning -- the same white panties, the same light brown hair, the same pink folds, but it's all different now, here, above, outside -- Angel. Her fingers know the way better than anyone else's could and yet they don't, not like this. Like looking at herself in a mirror, she is a stranger to her own body, a foreigner to her vagina, and Angel's moans are gibberish. She's touched herself too many times to count, thinking of Angel's hands, rough fingers that have learned the most astounding delicacy, the sweet, teasing torment of almost-orgasm. She could never wait, never tease herself to a state of arousal that was stronger than the lingering frustration of celibacy, would come quickly and roll over to sleep, or leap from bed to sate herself in the slaying -- but in Angel's body, she can tease. Angel's body has the patience of an ancient warrior and the stamina of a courtesan, and even though she would love something warm around her -- his -- this penis that is nestled between them, growing harder and demanding attention -- she can wait.

Angel's body is used to waiting, and Buffy's not sure that she's ready to put something larger than a thumb into Angel's cunt, slick with familiar wetness, slippery, and she gasps back a sob -- it's not -- it's not the idea of touching cunt, because whether Angel is wigged or no, she's a little freaked about that and the newness of it -- and it's not touching herself because even though she does, even though everyone does, there's nothing really erotic about it, not the way -- not the way that this is erotic, not the way that this is making her hard and making her ache and making her want to slide into her own stupid cunt because Angel's there and even here, even inside, even when she could wrap a hand around Angel's cock and not worry about curses or soul it's not close enough, not deep enough, and her fingers twisting inside Angel and making him moan with her voice but more growly than she's ever sounded, more haggard and desperate than she's ever been, is the best sex she's ever had and she wants more, wants to fill both of them with insideness.

She moves so she's more comfortable, off her knees, and suddenly she feels huge -- not just -- snicker, yeah -- the obvious, but her whole body, hovering, looming, over Angel's like a blanket, like safety, like fear, like a wingless, flightless vampire bat who nevertheless always seemed to soar with her beyond any world she'd known. And now that dark presence is hers, and she can only descend, grapple with unfamiliar clasps and clothes and descend, naked, into the body, strong and small and quick, that, at the moment of penetration, they agree to cohabit. Eyelashes flutter against her cheek and she can smell the salt of tears; she pushes in and pulls out and in and out and she moves faster, quickly finds the very furthest she can plumb. She's never let anyone fuck her this hard, never dreamed of wanting it, but Angel welcomes her and she can't push hard enough, can't be deep enough, can't fuck her body into submission or love Angel hard enough to keep their bodies intertwined, to keep him from walking away when the sun sets and they're back in the right -- wrong -- other -- bodies.

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From:

aaronlisa.livejournal.com

Wow.

Thank you.

From:

like your blood knows the way from your heart to your brain

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