"Heal" Angelus/Buffy, NC-17
The darkfic I promised, now delivered. Major thanks go to leelee_cakes for reading, being honest enough to point out the flaws and letting me retool the fic. Love ya.
Heal
Author: Regala Electra
E-mail: regala_electra@yahoo.com
Rating: NC 17
Pairing: Angelus/Buffy
Summary: There is an art to it.
Warnings: Graphic violence, graphic sexual content, BDSM
Author's Notes: Dark Vamp!Buffy and Angelus fic. If it creeps out the author when writing it, it probably isn't all sunshine and bunnies. Be warned again, this is really graphic and dark. Readers beware. Messed up fic ahead.
*
Her body has become his artwork. And she lets him practice his craft on her.
There is no warmth to her, no hint of fragile humanity, yet that does not matter. She is an exquisite piece of artwork, and though forever changed, she remains intact, a perfect canvas.
The skin has remained disgustingly tan. It looks as though she has just spent a day at the beach.
She looks alive, every trace of it remains logged stubbornly in the skin.
When the scar tissue mends, as it always will, she will be as vital and stunning as the freshest, most succulent human.
So he runs his fingers gently over the curves of her face, a thumb strokes the whisper-thin eyelashes, dark against his pale skin.
She is more tempting than any human he has ever ruined.
But as his mouth sinks into the fair flesh, the blood is no longer warm. There is now bitterness to the vibrant, magical taste of Slayerblood, clearly tainted by the vampire, but not overpowered by it.
She does not claw at him to continue, nor speaks a word (she's learned that lesson). Instead, she stays still, her eyes are closed, arms at her side.
He sucks fiercely on her blood, a hunger overpowering his more controlled, aesthetic intentions, forcing the bite deeper, harder. This is power in its purest form and though he has changed her, the outcome is still the same. Her blood can sustain him.
He stops, reluctantly, leaving her with enough to stay conscious. The skin, the obnoxious skin, has paled slightly, but still looks human enough, still looks too alive. She is holding her breath. He has yet to break her practice of breathing.
That, he decides, running his hands over her breasts, noticing how the body moves into his touch (a silent request for sensation without pain), will be dealt with later.
Now he is moving down her body, admiring previous work still waiting to mend back perfectly. The beauty of the damage is that the flaws are real and yet an illusion. They will not last.
A pity.
She will be again an unmarred, perfect specimen. And then, it will again be his pleasure to rend into flesh, creating new, angry scars. If he so chooses, he can make them last for weeks.
A flicker of pleasant memory crosses his mind. He smiles, though she does not see it.
He had strolled right up to her, she'd let him get close enough, and he had whispered in her ear, "I could spent forever breaking you."
And he will.
Her sides bear deep scratches. He smells the faint, rusty tang of blood just below the surface of the angry, red marks. Her blood does more than sing or scream for him to take, it *demands.*
But he has other plans.
The only part left as it was before, is between her legs and she opens them slowly, as though she is being coy, but Angelus knows better. She is too drained for even the simplest of motions. He helps her by pushing them open as full as her flexible body will allow.
He now switches his torment to pleasure, tasting the deep, richness of her body, and refusing to bring her to orgasm, despite her silent pleading.
Pausing, he moves away to press a kiss to her thigh, where hidden in the soft, smooth flesh is her tempting artery.
"Angelus..." Buffy whispers, and he grins, knowing he has won.
His face shifts and he opens his mouth, glutting himself on the heady folds within. And as she begins to scream, his mouth snaps shut, sucking fiercely.
The scream alters and does not stop until he has had his full. Until there is no scream left in her body.
Her skin is death-white and he watches the blood spread on the white sheets he had especially picked out, just for this night.
Predatorily moving up her body, he holds her face so that it bends up towards his own.
"Don't worry," he says, licking a messy path of her own blood and juices against her lips, a dark chuckle deep in his throat, "You'll heal."
*
It is later, much later, after he has enjoyed a long, deep sleep that he awakes to see her lying next to him.
Her body is again as perfect as it was on the day he attacked her in Rome.
He had taken no chances after being freed from the soul and he decided to finally finish what he had failed to do before: destroy the Slayer.
And she had looked at him with wide, frightened eyes, for she had made such a stupid mistake (he half-expected her to say, 'Angel?' in that little, questioning tone of hers) and he tasted her human essence for the last time.
Now, Buffy smiles at him. Her teeth are white, strikingly so, against her dark lips. They are stained red.
She runs her hand down his body; there is no expression on her face. Her admiration mimics his, he is pleased that she is an eager student and it amuses him that she thinks she possesses any power. It will make breaking her further all the more pleasurable.
The kiss she leaves is as gentle as any he has ever known, it is pure, vilely so, and he detests it, but encourages her to deepen it. She pulls away, an innocent flush to her deceptive, lively skin.
And before he can snarl at her, before he can finish breaking her, the face shifts, remaining beautiful, but different, and she attacks.
Her hands clamp down onto each of his wrists, pulling the arms as far apart as her smaller frame can manage, she climbs atop him, and without a pause, cracks her head to his own and there is only darkness and a cold burning shooting through his skull.
He cannot move as fast as her, cannot block her assault.
She rocks her body back, the newly healed flesh between her legs presses down on his cock, but the pain is too intense, and though he stirs against her, he cannot do anything, but *feel.*
She slams down on him and before he can shout, his sight returns and he sees her, a different smile on her face and she opens her mouth, white fangs glinting, and strikes.
When she is nearly finished feasting on his blood, when his vision again goes hazy, nearly turning back into darkness, he tries to tell her that this is enough, that the game's over.
She tightens her bite, he can feel every tooth in his throat, and then, the fierce clamp of her pussy around his cock, and even in the haze, he comes, hips thrusting, needing to feel more, more, more.
She lets go, her tongue cruelly laving at the wound. He wants to tell her the technique is wrong, she has not learned all the shades and layers of pain.
But he cannot.
Blood spurts up into his mouth; he can still taste the tang of her blood melded into his. He cannot speak and instead feels his blood sluggishly oozing out of his neck.
The blood gurgles in his mouth, nearly forming a question, a word, a name.
Buffy.
He is too drained, expertly so, as though she has learned better at his lessons of torture than he intended. He cannot repair the damage in time. She has weakened him in a matter of moments.
She has torn apart his neck, nearly severing his vocal chords. Dark blood drips from her mouth as she looks up at him, wiping at her lips.
He knows now. She is much stronger than him. She is still the Slayer.
She meant for this to happen.
"Don't worry," she says, bloody hand gently stroking the side of his face, but her voice is emotionless and cold, "You'll heal."
the end.
Heal
Author: Regala Electra
E-mail: regala_electra@yahoo.com
Rating: NC 17
Pairing: Angelus/Buffy
Summary: There is an art to it.
Warnings: Graphic violence, graphic sexual content, BDSM
Author's Notes: Dark Vamp!Buffy and Angelus fic. If it creeps out the author when writing it, it probably isn't all sunshine and bunnies. Be warned again, this is really graphic and dark. Readers beware. Messed up fic ahead.
*
Her body has become his artwork. And she lets him practice his craft on her.
There is no warmth to her, no hint of fragile humanity, yet that does not matter. She is an exquisite piece of artwork, and though forever changed, she remains intact, a perfect canvas.
The skin has remained disgustingly tan. It looks as though she has just spent a day at the beach.
She looks alive, every trace of it remains logged stubbornly in the skin.
When the scar tissue mends, as it always will, she will be as vital and stunning as the freshest, most succulent human.
So he runs his fingers gently over the curves of her face, a thumb strokes the whisper-thin eyelashes, dark against his pale skin.
She is more tempting than any human he has ever ruined.
But as his mouth sinks into the fair flesh, the blood is no longer warm. There is now bitterness to the vibrant, magical taste of Slayerblood, clearly tainted by the vampire, but not overpowered by it.
She does not claw at him to continue, nor speaks a word (she's learned that lesson). Instead, she stays still, her eyes are closed, arms at her side.
He sucks fiercely on her blood, a hunger overpowering his more controlled, aesthetic intentions, forcing the bite deeper, harder. This is power in its purest form and though he has changed her, the outcome is still the same. Her blood can sustain him.
He stops, reluctantly, leaving her with enough to stay conscious. The skin, the obnoxious skin, has paled slightly, but still looks human enough, still looks too alive. She is holding her breath. He has yet to break her practice of breathing.
That, he decides, running his hands over her breasts, noticing how the body moves into his touch (a silent request for sensation without pain), will be dealt with later.
Now he is moving down her body, admiring previous work still waiting to mend back perfectly. The beauty of the damage is that the flaws are real and yet an illusion. They will not last.
A pity.
She will be again an unmarred, perfect specimen. And then, it will again be his pleasure to rend into flesh, creating new, angry scars. If he so chooses, he can make them last for weeks.
A flicker of pleasant memory crosses his mind. He smiles, though she does not see it.
He had strolled right up to her, she'd let him get close enough, and he had whispered in her ear, "I could spent forever breaking you."
And he will.
Her sides bear deep scratches. He smells the faint, rusty tang of blood just below the surface of the angry, red marks. Her blood does more than sing or scream for him to take, it *demands.*
But he has other plans.
The only part left as it was before, is between her legs and she opens them slowly, as though she is being coy, but Angelus knows better. She is too drained for even the simplest of motions. He helps her by pushing them open as full as her flexible body will allow.
He now switches his torment to pleasure, tasting the deep, richness of her body, and refusing to bring her to orgasm, despite her silent pleading.
Pausing, he moves away to press a kiss to her thigh, where hidden in the soft, smooth flesh is her tempting artery.
"Angelus..." Buffy whispers, and he grins, knowing he has won.
His face shifts and he opens his mouth, glutting himself on the heady folds within. And as she begins to scream, his mouth snaps shut, sucking fiercely.
The scream alters and does not stop until he has had his full. Until there is no scream left in her body.
Her skin is death-white and he watches the blood spread on the white sheets he had especially picked out, just for this night.
Predatorily moving up her body, he holds her face so that it bends up towards his own.
"Don't worry," he says, licking a messy path of her own blood and juices against her lips, a dark chuckle deep in his throat, "You'll heal."
*
It is later, much later, after he has enjoyed a long, deep sleep that he awakes to see her lying next to him.
Her body is again as perfect as it was on the day he attacked her in Rome.
He had taken no chances after being freed from the soul and he decided to finally finish what he had failed to do before: destroy the Slayer.
And she had looked at him with wide, frightened eyes, for she had made such a stupid mistake (he half-expected her to say, 'Angel?' in that little, questioning tone of hers) and he tasted her human essence for the last time.
Now, Buffy smiles at him. Her teeth are white, strikingly so, against her dark lips. They are stained red.
She runs her hand down his body; there is no expression on her face. Her admiration mimics his, he is pleased that she is an eager student and it amuses him that she thinks she possesses any power. It will make breaking her further all the more pleasurable.
The kiss she leaves is as gentle as any he has ever known, it is pure, vilely so, and he detests it, but encourages her to deepen it. She pulls away, an innocent flush to her deceptive, lively skin.
And before he can snarl at her, before he can finish breaking her, the face shifts, remaining beautiful, but different, and she attacks.
Her hands clamp down onto each of his wrists, pulling the arms as far apart as her smaller frame can manage, she climbs atop him, and without a pause, cracks her head to his own and there is only darkness and a cold burning shooting through his skull.
He cannot move as fast as her, cannot block her assault.
She rocks her body back, the newly healed flesh between her legs presses down on his cock, but the pain is too intense, and though he stirs against her, he cannot do anything, but *feel.*
She slams down on him and before he can shout, his sight returns and he sees her, a different smile on her face and she opens her mouth, white fangs glinting, and strikes.
When she is nearly finished feasting on his blood, when his vision again goes hazy, nearly turning back into darkness, he tries to tell her that this is enough, that the game's over.
She tightens her bite, he can feel every tooth in his throat, and then, the fierce clamp of her pussy around his cock, and even in the haze, he comes, hips thrusting, needing to feel more, more, more.
She lets go, her tongue cruelly laving at the wound. He wants to tell her the technique is wrong, she has not learned all the shades and layers of pain.
But he cannot.
Blood spurts up into his mouth; he can still taste the tang of her blood melded into his. He cannot speak and instead feels his blood sluggishly oozing out of his neck.
The blood gurgles in his mouth, nearly forming a question, a word, a name.
Buffy.
He is too drained, expertly so, as though she has learned better at his lessons of torture than he intended. He cannot repair the damage in time. She has weakened him in a matter of moments.
She has torn apart his neck, nearly severing his vocal chords. Dark blood drips from her mouth as she looks up at him, wiping at her lips.
He knows now. She is much stronger than him. She is still the Slayer.
She meant for this to happen.
"Don't worry," she says, bloody hand gently stroking the side of his face, but her voice is emotionless and cold, "You'll heal."
the end.