And Then You Kissed Me
Author: Lamia Archer
Rating: R, bloodplay
Summary: Fluff, but you know, with kink. CWC like whoa.
Spoilers: All canon through “Bad Eggs” is fair game, with the understanding that I’ve probably tampered with most of it.
Sweet love, tasty blood.
My heart overfloods. . . .
Baby, you hit me.
You punched me right in the heart.
And then you kissed me.
And then you hit me.
And then you kissed me.
Oh, you haunt me with your violent heartbeat.
- the Cardigans, “And Then You Kissed Me”
“It is,” Angel answered absently, not completely paying attention to his little blonde girlfriend, even though she had all her attention on him. She’d been drifting about his apartment for the past hour and a half, doing her homework and her nails and chatting inanely about subjects and people that were less than riveting to him, so he’d switched most of his attention to his novel.
This was not a fact that had escaped Buffy. Okay, well maybe it had, while she was telling him about Xander and Cordelia being found going at it underneath Giles’s desk and about how her mother’s dictatorship was completely draconian, all the while half-heartedly looking at the pictures in her French book and carefully filing her nails. But now that she was done with her manicure and her attempt at scholarship, she expected him to immediately change tracks with her. Pouting, she knelt by his chair in what she hoped was a becoming and slightly Lolita-inappropriate pose, and rested her chin on his arm. He didn’t even raise his eyes from his book.
“You promised we would play on Friday.”
He raised his eyes from the text to Buffy’s curled mouth and her little furrowed brow. He held back a chuckle and forced himself to be cool and collected.
“You said we could do the next chapter of my book,” she added, perking now that she had his eyes on her.
He groaned and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Oh, good.”
She sighed and sat up straight, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I’ve never heard a man complain about getting laid as much as you do,” she scoffed. “Or, you know, at all. You know, there are lots of men who would jump at the chance to - well, you know, jump me . . .”
Angel growled and tossed his book aside, forgetting completely about being cool and collected. He closed his hand over her wrist, resting on the arm of his chair, and used that to pull her to her feet and against him. She fell against his chest, wide-eyed, as he closed his other arm around her waist, arresting any escape plans she might have been brewing.
“There are no other men,” he growled, fighting to control himself. He was a breath away from loosing the demon and slipping into game face.
She took a moment to remember how to work her tongue. “I - Angel - of course not.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Say it.”
“I - what?”
He took a deep breath, forcing the demon further from the surface. “I want to hear you say it.”
Buffy, suddenly looking very small and shaky, was a moment in responding.
“There are no other men,” she whispered finally.
“There are no other men, Angel,” she repeated, louder. “You’re the only one.” Studying his face for the glint of demon and coming back with only Angel, she chanced rising to her tiptoes and pressing a small kiss to his stern face.
The severity relaxed from his visage and he released his iron grip on her wrist and instead curled both arms gently around her, cuddling her to him. He quirked the corner of his mouth into a small smile, meeting her eyes; after the subservience dissipated from her face and her expression was all love and happiness again, he leaned in and met her lips with his own, kissing her long, soft, and sweet.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers. “I don’t mean to be so harsh with you; I just get so jealous -”
“It’s okay,” she whispered, gazing at his pretty face with blind adoration. “I understand. I’m jealous of you, too. But you’re the only one I want.”
He held her close, nuzzling the joint of her neck, just enjoying the feel of her in his arms, the smell of her. After a moment of this bliss, he drew away from her, kissed her forehead.
“Go get your book, baby.”
Grinning, Buffy ran off to retrieve her book. Angel tried to steel himself for whatever might lay ahead. He loved Buffy very, very much, and Lord knows he loved having sex with her . . . but God, did he hate that book. It was Vanilla Spice, a trendy, chatty sex book in a cheap cover that was running up the Best Seller lists. Angel wasn’t sure if it was Buffy’s need to be fashionable or the last of her timidity where sex was concerned rubbing off, and - as of the first “chapter” - he officially didn’t care. He directed the energy of his curiosity into desperately hoping there wouldn’t be a sequel, and into the more difficult but ultimately more fruitful task of getting Buffy to keep the thing locked up six nights a week. Pouting slightly, she had finally agreed, but only after he used a battery of extremely difficult sexual techniques to illustrate to her the pleasure of non-scripted variety.
He could hear Buffy’s feet patting softly on the wood floor, coming back to him with the bane of his existence in her small, eager hands. He sank back into his chair, trying to calm himself. He wondered if he should undress, if it would speed things up.
Before he could start stripping, Buffy vaulted over the arm of his chair and into his lap. Briefly, his eyes flitted from her effervescent smile and sparkling eyes to her hands; she was carrying not only the horrid book, but also a brown paper bag full of . . . he had no idea. He stopped wondering and brought his eyes back up to her beautiful smiling face and forced a smile of his own.
She grinned and darted in to kiss him quickly. She tasted so, so sweet. He slipped his arms around her little waist; she felt so good in his arms. He had an impressive urge to haul her over his shoulder and carry her, kicking and whining, down the hall to his bedroom, and then to throw her on the bed and spend the next eight or nine hours slowly ravaging her.
But he knew she wouldn’t have any of it. She’d been a good girl all week. And he had proooooomised.
He just hoped it wasn’t as bad as last week’s. The chapter had been “Talking Dirty,” and since Buffy was as a rule reduced to mewling and whimpering approximately thirty seconds after Angel got her bra off, the burden had been put on him. Needless to say, he had not appreciated going against his laconic nature to tell her over and over what a tight little bitch she was.
Gently pushing aside Angel’s pawing hands, Buffy thumbed through her book - past “The Ties That Bind” and “Spanking for Beginners” - to the evening’s selection. Angel stared speechlessly at the page for a long moment before speaking.
“Blood play?” he read weakly.
Buffy looked a little upset. “What? You promised -”
He looked at her dumbly. “You don’t see any possible complications to us . . . bloodplaying.”
She looked puzzled. “Like what?”
He sighed, surrendering. “Nothing, baby. What do you want me to do?”
She smiled. “Actually, I’ll do it. Just be still.”
“What are you -”
She rolled her eyes at her lover’s nervous face. “Relax, big man. I’m just going to get you a little nakeder.”
He relaxed, a smile blooming over the unease. “Oh. Okay.”
He leaned back for her as she slowly unbuttoned his plush velvet shirt. Because, at first, sex had been so frightening for her, she had always taken a very long time in undressing him, and therefore she was extraordinarily good at it. There were nights that he was so tantalized by her deft fingers slowly stripping him of his clothes that, by the time he was nude, it was everything he could do to keep from coming.
Buffy, for her part, enjoyed the ritual too. She was fascinated by her lover’s body, and undressing him was like discovering him anew every night. (Or afternoon. Or midmorning. Or - whatever. Analogies were hard). She reveled in the languorous pace, giving herself ample time to refamiliarize herself with his lovely terrain, loved - in a different way - watching his reactions as she pleasured and tortured him so effortlessly. She knew what she was doing was maddening to him, knew even that she had not even a fraction of his patience in enduring it, but still that he enjoyed it the way you enjoy a rollercoaster’s plummet, the balance between heart-rending fear and mind-blowing exhilaration. She could see it in his face, his mouth dropping, his eyes losing focus and going inky, the muscles in his jaw jerking imperceptibly underneath the smooth ivory of his skin.
Three buttons down, and she allowed herself a brief indulgence. Meeting his eyes - still focused, at this point - she slipped her hand from his shirtfront to the cool of his chest, traced the curve of his pectoral muscle, the surprising iron of his collarbone. She let her fingers rest in the depression there, letting her palm fall against his quiet chest. It didn’t bother her anymore, his lack of a heartbeat. His lack of . . . any human noises at all. He was empty inside, silent, but it hadn’t frightened her since the first time he’d kissed her. He’d held her like she was precious, and kissed her like he was an angel, so a lack of th-thump when she rested her head against his heart was something that she would forgive. Sometimes she wished that he was human, but more and more she was finding that she loved the little peculiarities of his being a vampire: his cool, growling, the feral look that surfaced in his eyes when he looked at her. She was even beginning to develop a warm feeling in her stomach for his game face; she could recognize him easily from other vampires, and sometimes - especially when he was going down on her, she realized one day with a sudden flush of embarrassment - she wanted badly for him to wear it during sex.
She realized that he was looking at her. Intensely, not just the passive way he could have when he knew he was going to be fucked shortly.
“How does that feel?” she asked quietly.
He quirked the corner of his mouth. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
She lowered her eyes to her tan, manicured hand against his pale perfect chest. Her nails were painted pink, and suddenly - there against his broad, broad chest, they looked small, childish. She swallowed and studied instead the brief slight flush when she pressed into his skin.
“Good,” she answered finally, and straightened in his lap. She pursed her mouth and went back to unbuttoning his shirt. She quickened her pace a little, urgent now. She needed him too badly now to dawdle, and she wasn’t sure what had changed in those few moments to intensify her wanting.
Angel noticed the sudden shift, too, and gently closed her little hands in his own.
“Shhh,” he said quietly. “Let me.”
Without needing instruction, Buffy dropped her hands to her lap and just watched as Angel deftly unbuttoned and removed his shirt, baring his chest. He folded the garment and laid it over the arm of the chair.
“More?” he asked.
Her mouth dangled open for a moment before she understood what he was referring too, and shook her head.
“I - no,” she said. “That’s enough.”
Even though it plainly wasn’t.
She picked her book up from her lap and studied it. Her hands were shaking, and it made the text a little hard to read, moving targets.
“I - I’m supposed to clean the area first,” she said numbly. She found the brown paper bag and rifled through it before coming up with some cotton balls and a little bottle of rubbing alcohol. In opening the bottle and wetting the cotton ball, she missed Angel rolling his eyes in response to the formality of the procedure.
She let her pink fingertips rest for a moment over the place on his chest they’d just been.
“Here,” she said, a declaration although she meant it as a question. It came out like “home.”
Angel nodded passively. “Fine.”
She pursed her mouth again and went to work, swabbing his chest. The some of the alcohol seeped through the cotton to sting her fingers; it was very cold. She raised her eyes to Angel’s face; he didn’t flinch, and she wondered if he’d noticed the temperature, wondered how much of a difference in temperature there was between her lover and the antiseptic.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, and was surprised to see him smile.
“You haven’t touched me yet, darling.”
She wasn’t sure what that meant, until she remembered that she had blades in the bag, too. She threw away the cotton ball in the wastebasket beside the chair, then capped the alcohol and bent down to set it on the floor. Bringing her body back up in a graceful arc, she double-checked her book - butterflies in her stomach - before going back to the bag. As she closed her fingers around the heavy hilt of her knife, she paused.
“Are you sure?”
She wasn’t sure who she was asking, but Angel told her sweetly that it was all right, so she drew the dagger out of the bag and before she knew what was happening, she was resting the blade against the unblemished perfection of his torso.
“It won’t hurt,” she said numbly.
“I doubt that,” Angel said, but again she had the distinct impression that he wasn’t talking about himself.
The book said to start with shallow cuts, “abrasions,” but after she saw the smooth marble part to a slow sliver of red, she lost all sense of things like that, and - like an artist - let the blade slide in until the color was right. The silver of the metal, almost as pale as Angel’s skin, brought forth a wave of bright red, followed by increasingly darker flow. The lava coursed down Angel’s hard muscles down until nothing, pooling into the black of his pants.
She looked up into his face, surprised, the sight of his linen trousers bringing her back to reality.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He was looking at her oddly. “It’s okay.”
She looked back at his wound, recalling in a kind of drugged way that she hadn’t heard him make a noise when she’d put the blade in. The dark welled around the striking silver, but fresh blood had stopped flowing; he was already healing, his sturdy preternatural flesh holding the dagger in place.
She brought her fingers to the ribbed hilt, gently let the pressure of her weight fall gently upon it. His newly regenerated skin and muscle offered more resistance than she would have thought.
“It will hurt when I take it out,” she said uncertainly, looking at the knife, not at his eyes.
Somewhere, it registered that his voice was slightly husky, but she would have attributed it to lust far before she would have considered that blood was welling in his throat; she didn’t have a good sense of how far she’d drove the blade in, just a dull dread sensation in her belly that it was pretty fucking far.
She reached for the hilt again, but her hand shook, and eventually she withdrew it altogether, letting it fall uselessly back to her lap.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
Angel cleared his throat. “Give me your hand.”
She looked up at him with pre-tantrum eyes, eyes that didn’t comprehend anything other than that the situation was too big for them. She didn’t move.
“Put your hand on the hilt, Buffy.”
She did respond to the sternness in his tone, though, and she sat up straighter and curled her hand around the dagger’s butt. Angel covered her hand with his own, meeting her eyes with resolve.
“One,” he whispered.
“No,” she said desperately.
“Two,” he continued, seemingly ignoring her.
“Angel,” she begged.
Tightening his hand over hers, he pulled the dagger out of his chest. Buffy squeaked harshly, but Angel was silent, just swallowing thickly as he looked down to the now opening now closing wound in his chest.
He was quiet for a long time, waiting for Buffy to calm. When she had, he said quietly:
The calm was gone before he’d finished speaking, and Buffy was staring at him, wide-eyed and panicked, inching back toward the arm of the chair.
“Angel, no,” she begged, shaking her head. “No, please, we won’t do anything else from the book, please, let’s forget it -”
He frowned. He didn’t want her frightened of him, didn’t want her to think that he was playing daddy with her, that he wanted her to squirm. Sweetly, easing the frown from his face, he drew her into his arms, held her close against his healed chest.
“Sweet baby,” he whispered against her hair. He felt her relax a little. A little, not a lot. He kissed her throat, her jaw, her cheeks, her lips. Finally she was warm and calm in his lap, and he drew back from her enough to meet her eyes.
“Do you love me?” he asked quietly.
She blushed. That was enough for him, but she was obedient, and answered meekly that of course she did, so much.
“Do you trust me?”
She nodded. “Yes, Angel. I trust you.”
He kissed her sweet warm mouth. “Then trust me here.”
She looked unsure.
He waited a moment, making sure that his voice was the warmth and consistency of honey before chancing his next instruction.
“Take your shirt off for me, darling.”
He must have hit it right, because she didn’t hesitate to obey him, quietly lifting her shirt over her head and baring her harnessed breasts and flat little belly to him. He rested a hand on her hip, letting his eyes roll over her gorgeous body for a long moment. She was flushed, from her cheeks down her graceful throat, over her tiny shoulders, down to her round breasts and past where the black lace of her bra rushed to cradle them. She was nervous - he could smell this, of course, and hear and feel the upbeat tempo of her heartbeat - and was breathing a little faster than usual; her breasts heaved inside their lace prison, rising and falling attractively. He raised a hand and cupped one gently; this increased her nervousness as well as her arousal, and both her blush and her breathing increased. She was threatening to escape her undergarment, and she was so hot in his palm that he worried briefly of scorch.
“Beautiful girl,” he whispered, and leaned in to kiss her right above her heart. She relaxed into his cool touch, and let him gently fondle her heaving breasts and press icy kisses to her fevered throat and face before reciprocating, pressing kisses to his face, grabbing at his shoulders with her tiny hands that just could not stop shaking. She moaned, pressing her bound breasts desperately against his cool, bloodstained chest, hoping desperately for some friction, for some touch beyond sweet. He endeavored to assist her, slipping a hand around her back and squeezing open the hooks of her bra; her breasts fell loose, and he helped her remove the constricting garment. She pressed herself to him again, but he stopped her, drawing back slightly.
“Come on,” he rasped, and drew her into his arms, standing with her. Surprised, she held his neck, and allowed limply for him to carry her to his bedroom, to lay her on the gentle resistance of his bed’s soft mattress. He straddled her and brought his mouth to her aching, burning breasts; he kissed and suckled at her soft flesh, at the dusky pearls of her nipples, fever hot and so tender that she cried out when he brought just his lips to them. She writhed beneath him, helpless, wanting to touch him and make him feel this way too, but too far gone to know how to start; she grabbed listlessly at his shoulders, ran her fingers through his dark hair as he bent over her breasts.
“Please, please,” she whispered, arching her hips up until they met resistance in Angel straddling her.
He drew back from her swollen breasts and - teasingly slow, she thought irrationally - slipped her jeans from her legs, took off her panties and left her naked beneath him.
“You too,” she insisted, grabbing uselessly at his belt buckle.
Trying not to smile too much, he very quickly removed the rest of his clothing and then descended upon her again, delighted nearly to delirium at the feel of her hot, writhing body along the full length of his.
“Need you so badly,” she whispered. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, and she was panting, her back already arched even though he hadn’t touched her below the waist except to undress her.
He brought his mouth to her throat and slid his hand between her legs, up into the hot wet crevice of her sex. As hot as her fevered skin was, it was no match for the inferno here; Angel swore for a dizzying moment that he’d burst into ash and that would be it, he’d disappear into the delectable fire of his lover. And she was soaking, dying for him, a lake of fire rushing to surround him.
“Angel,” she demanded, panting.
“I know, love.”
He worked his fingers into the furthest cavern of her depths, massaging her, drawing in and out slowly, making her toss and moan, clutching his blankets with white knuckled, pink-fingered hands.
“More,” she whispered greedily.
“Wait,” he said softly, turning his wrist so that he could still fuck her while stroking her bead hard clitoris with his thumb.
She let out a small cry and bucked her hips. She was not in the mood for waiting. She was not in the mood for tempering her desires. She wanted all of him, and she wanted him now .
“Now,” she panted.
“Wait,” he repeated, increasing his tempo. He was starting to get hot, too, even starting to pant; his cock was hardening at a speed that was almost worrying. He wanted her. Badly. But he could be patient.
This was a talent Buffy lacked, however. She whined and writhed on the blankets, arched her hips hard into Angel’s touch.
“More. Please. Now.”
“Buffy,” he scolded, his voice quiet but stern. “Wait. ”
Meekly, she tried to contain herself, to obey him. But she was on fire, she was aching, her entire body screamed for him, and it was so, so hard to be a good girl for him, she wanted him, needed him -
“Angel ,” she whimpered, desperate, pinprick tears forming in the corners of her unfocused eyes.
He raised his eyes to her; a little pang hit his stomach when he saw how much torture she was enduring.
“Baby, baby,” he whispered, his voice soft, sweet. “I know, sweetheart, just wait one minute, please, trust me . . .”
She sniffled slightly but nodded, determined to be good for him, to trust him. He worked his hand within her, enraging her clit, for only a few more moments before drawing out and straddling her properly, his face looming above hers.
“I love you,” he whispered, and kissed her molten mouth, easing his turgid cock between her legs and into her. She received him greedily, pulling at him hard, wrapping her legs around his hips, bringing her pelvis up to meet him with every thrust. Angel, for his part, was still patient; he controlled himself, moving inside her with a moderate, tender pace. He rested his face against the joint of her jaw, kissing her face, her throat.
“Oh, more,” she whispered.
He chuckled, meeting her eyes. “More than my cock, baby?”
She moaned, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and hugging him to her.
“Oh, you are meeeeeean,” she whined. “Please. Harder. Hard.”
He pulled his eyes from hers.
“You want me to hurt you?”
She nodded eagerly. “Yes. Please. Now.”
“All right,” he muttered, but it sounded like he was talking more to himself than to her. He raised himself up a little, quickened his tempo drawing in and out of her, drove into her with harder, more insistent strokes.
Angel looked down at his lover beneath him. Buffy’s eyes were closed tight; she was focusing solely on her granted pleasure. She had to be very, very close; Angel was almost surprised that she hadn’t come already, but he knew her body pretty well, and knew that it sometimes took her a long time to get warmed up at this time in her cycle. Her mouth was parted, breathing in short little breaths; she was flushed all over, all the blood in her body rushing up to color her gorgeous tanned skin. Her heart was fluttering like a bird’s; even if he couldn’t hear it, which he could, he could feel it against him, echoing against him, echoing through him. He could see it, too, see her pulse vibrate under her skin, through her veins . . . under the skin of her throat, the big deep vein there, just pulsing with her heartbeats.
“All right,” he said again, quietly. Buffy made a little noise of question, but really she was too concerned with being on the brink of tremendous orgasm to be really lucid. Angel kissed her jaw tenderly, and then brought his face down further, rested his lips on the bass pulse of her throat, the vein in her throat . . .
Before he realized it, he’d turned, his demon face rippling up from nowhere, his eyes flashing gold, his teeth flashing brilliantly in the dim light of his bedroom, sinking into Buffy’s throat, into that vein, with the same tempo and drive as his swollen cock into her tight sex. Buffy’s sweet hot blood rushed into his mouth and she cried out, clawing at his shoulders violently; not from pain, but from her climax, finally crashing violently over her. She screamed, screamed his name, and he could feel the hot trail of blood welling up on his back where her pink nails drew too far.
Himself, he drank, the copper heaven of her and the sweetness of her coming releasing him from his patience and everything else. He came, too, bucking against her, wisely steeling his jaw as to not tear her soft throat. He took a shuddering, unneeded breath, not drawing from her but collapsing against her, coming back to human guise and stopping his suckling, just laying against her trembling body, licking her ambrosia from his lips. They lay there for a long moment, tangled in each other’s arms, bringing their breathing and their body temperatures back to normal, before remembering they could speak.
“What was that?” Buffy asked weakly. Angel had fed from her before, but never without her permission, and never during sex.
“Bloodplay,” Angel murmured, sighing and drawing out of her - which she met with a disappointed moan - and then collapsing by her side, bringing his mouth to her healing throat and licking her clean. “Did it hurt?”
She brought her hand to where the closing wound. It was raw, puckered, but it hurt like her nipples did; an aching, sex hurt.
“No,” she said softly.
“See?” he asked quietly, going back to laving her throat of blood. “My way’s better.”
She laughed. “You’re right. I liked that a lot.” She turned to face him; he made a little disappointment noise, not yet finished with his chore, but she kissed him to make up for it, and he cheered quite quickly. “You . . . you can do it again, if you want.”
He looked at her curiously, then eyed her bare throat. She rolled her eyes.
“Not right now, stupe.” She softened her tone, curled a hand around his shoulder. “But if some other time, you wanted to do that . . . I liked it.”
He smiled and kissed her softly. “I’m glad.”
She wasted a few minutes kissing him, teasing him semi-chastely, before turning to her back again so that he could finish licking the blood from her closing wound. He went to it quickly, licking and kissing at her throat, resting his hand on her stomach, absently stroking her belly, the underside of her breasts.
After a long moment, she said, “You know, the next chapter is “Piercing for Dummies” -”
He glared at her murderously. She giggled.
“You hate that thing, don’t you?”
His glower dissipated, and he was left with sort of a sheepish smile. “Is it obvious?”
She brought up a hand, cupped his face gently. “Kind of. I’ll throw it away, okay?” She looked down at her legs doubtfully. “As soon as I can get up.”
He grinned wolfishly, sliding his legs over hers, straddling her again.
“That could be awhile, dear.”
She smiled contentedly, looking up at him.
“I’m really, really okay with that.”
He silenced her with a hungry kiss.
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