Lover, I Think We’re Falling

Author: clockwork_hart1

Pairing: Buffy/Angelus

Genre: Angst

Rating: NC17

Warnings: Non-con

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

Word Count: 1051







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 dark.


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 the darkness.


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 drowning.


I can 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 "Soon."


Then he's gone. Melted like the ghost of a man he is.


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, Angelus smiles.




Rain-damp 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.


Clothes 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.


She 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 dark; nothing.


And he's 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 liquid rush.


It's 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.


Angel laughs, low and husky and joyed. It's mocking. And between ribs and down in to the very core of her, it cuts.


Open hazel 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."


She's screaming now, and he keeps moving inside her, swallowing up protests with a harsh kiss.


He pounds 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.


She's 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.


It's too dry, sandpaper friction. It feels like she's bleeding, torn.


His mouth 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.


He...He's draining her.


Inside her, filling and draining her in every way.


The tears are unrelenting, making gentle little paths that puddle on her cheeks, searing along flushed skin.


She can't tell if she's moaning or screaming as hips pump harder, viciously slamming in and out.


The world is greying at the edges. She's slipping away now. And worse, she wants to.


Buffy 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.