Lover, I Think We’re Falling
Disclaimer: I own none of the amazing
characters, just the words.
Summary: AU of Bewitched, Bothered
and Bewildered, Angelus gives Buffy a Valentines gift that doesn't lack poetry
Oh this girl was forged from it. Flaxen hair of
liquid daylight, rose petal lips that bleed so freely—when given the right stimulation. A body carved from
innocence; begging to be corrupted.
He wants to covet, lash and bleed her until she's
drowning in dark and depraved desires she could never think to utter aloud.
God, she's perfection.
And there she stands, so bathed in her exquisite
righteousness, spewing hate-soaked glances and fearing to reach out into the
The corruption of her innocence feeds his artistic
intentions, her hold on herself growing more frayed and jagged as the seconds
and thoughts tick her by.
And on this day, Saint Valentine will feast on her
fragmented remains, when control and urges become unbidden and she spirals into
Like an arrow to a bursting heart, only love can
shatter a person so.
She can see him watching her.
Feel his eyes eating away at her body and soul.
And her stupid, twisted, traitorous heart thumps
violently when the smirk settles on a stolen face. Oh God, make him stop. Make
it all stop.
She shouldn’t even be here, after everything Giles didn’t say… And it’s terrifying, just
how little control she has—between love and want and hatred, he’s all there is.
The sharp wooden daggers her eyes shoot are
infected by pain and longing. She can't move any closer, not to kill and not to
caress. The cemetery dirt turns to cement.
He visibly inhales. Her pulse rings through her
like an alarm clock. There's panic, murderous panic that swallows her and she's
smell you, you know. When you're aroused.
He'd whispered that, naughtily, once, and a
thousand times in dreams. Not Angel. Him.
And it takes a moment to realise he smells the rose
nestled in her hair. The rose she picked from the bunch he gifted her, snipping
the stem and wearing it almost proudly.
Soft, lightly blood-stained lips pout and whisper
Then he's gone. Melted like the ghost of a man he
The graveyard is vacant, but for the frigid
moonlight that chills when it graces goose-pecked flesh, stoic, judging
headstones and dead grass.
Alone, icy cold and blistering with dirty, evil
heat; Buffy starts to cry.
She's ethereal in sleep.
Hair damp and shining, splayed out like a haphazard
halo, breaths uninhibited and soft. It's like a symphony, bettered only by the
sound of her screams.
She moves beneath the bed sheets, writhing, kicking
them away from a sweating body.
The duvet falls away and bares her
night-dress-covered form to him, eliciting a growl and a lick of dry lips.
Her skin has a faint pink hue, and sharp white
lines run along with scalpel edge sharpness. He chuckles, almost silent. She's
tried to scrub his lascivious gaze from her skin, feeling dirty and stained.
What a lovely Valentine's gift.
He climbs from the tree to the window she'd only
loosely shut, almost begging him to
slip in and take advantage.
So he obliges, climbing inside the moon-lit bedroom
and lying down beside her on the duvet-less bed.
Moaning, she turns and unconsciously snuggles into
his cool form, and in the dark, arms wrapping around the sleeping sylph,
bodies press blissfully together when Angel leans down. Soft touches, light
kisses. Lips, soft, slide and melt together. Tongues meet in tangled knots of
honey and roses and something old. Older than anything.
melt to nothing, only breath lies between bodies, touching, a haze of sweat and
sweetness. His body is cold against hers, skin smooth where hers is soft.
Mouths find one another, as his fingers flutter against her opening, soft and
wet and pliant, just aching for him.
breathes away the tension, the ache, the need, crying out when he claims her
innocence with his cock and fills her. The tears trickle, spilling over her
eyelids and there's nothing. Through the blossoming pain, the pleasure, the
kissing them away, the tears, the ache, and whispers; "look at me. Shh,
it's okay. Watch me, Buffy." He starts moving, shallow thrusts that roll
through her and blur the pain. Sparks run through her, pleasure, flutters of a
wonderful, it's perfect. It's everything and nothing like she thought it would
feel. She makes sounds, moans, stuttered breaths that are drawn from her lungs
with a blissful lack of control.
laughs, low and husky and joyed. It's mocking. And between ribs and down in to
the very core of her, it cuts.
eyes are greeted by yellow. Burning yellow eyes so cold she's swallowed by
them, a vicious smile is tainted by sharp fangs, "Hello, lover."
screaming now, and he keeps moving inside her, swallowing up protests with a
deep into soft, pillowed walls, hard, fast. Pain shoots though her as he
thrusts too deep, stretching her to fit him, then stretching further. He's
splitting her in two. He must be.
still screaming into his mouth, fists pounding against strong, solid flesh.
Buffy struggles, writhing desperately to scramble away and be anywhere but
beneath him. Anywhere but near him. He leans heavily on her, crushing them
together in forced embrace. She's crying and can't move and she's so weak.
dry, sandpaper friction. It feels like she's bleeding, torn.
pulls away from hers so he can watch her anguish, watch her tears. Then, with a
toe-curling smile, he leans down and razors—fangs— slash into her throat.
her, filling and draining her in every way.
are unrelenting, making gentle little paths that puddle on her cheeks, searing
along flushed skin.
tell if she's moaning or screaming as hips pump harder, viciously slamming in
is greying at the edges. She's slipping away now. And worse, she wants to.
feels how close she stands on the edge of disappearing and stops fighting.
And as she readies to wake, panting, screaming,
sweating, the red glaze drips sluggishly over her sight, and lips.
Choking, swallowing, drowning
in the primal copper liquid, Buffy feels her heartbeat slow.
Until she doesn't.
She feels nothing at all.