A Peculiar Comfort
Title: A Peculiar Comfort
Warnings: BDSM, bloodplay
Timeline: Post-both series.
AN: Written for chrisleeoctaves in the B/A kinkficathon. She wanted dominant Angel, and a dark and angsty fic. Well Angel is definitely dominant here, and I think it's angsty, but i think Friends is angsty sometimes, so i hope this is dark enough m'dear.
AN2: Many many many thanks to my AMAZING beta readers carlyinrome and marenfic. this would be a festival of suck without these girls. any mistakes are mine, they are superheroes and tried to make me fix them. Also thanks to viciouswishes who provided links without which i wouldn't have been able to write this convincingly at all.
He loved to listen to her breath change as he hit her. The sharp inhale as the thin rattan cane connected with her flesh. The whimper as it left her. Each breath came with a surge of arousal. By the time he was ready to move on she was always dripping.
When her back and ass were covered in lines and welts and she was so close to coming that he wasn’t sure she’d last, he’d stop. Walk away. Stand by the table where the tools for their games lay. She’d moan and he’d remind her to stay quiet. He’d take time to admire Buffy, stretched out, suspended so that just the balls of her feet touched the ground, flesh red, quivering, sweating.
After a minute of silence counted out by her heartbeats, he’d come back to her. Touch the knife to the skin of her cheek and lean in close to whisper in her ear.
“How many this month?”
And she’d shiver.
Some months it was a low number, some months it was so high that Angel could barely believe it. But it was never zero. Every month some of Buffy’s slayers died.
He’d circle behind her, tracing patterns on her flesh with the tip of the knife, careful never to break the skin.
“That’s not good, Buffy. Can’t let so many girls die. What kind of leader are you?”
She’d hang her head, and he’d have a momentary desire to take her down from the suspension bar, hold her, rock her and soothe her. But she’d long ago closed herself off from that kind of help. This was all that she’d accept.
“Do you deserve to be punished, Buffy? Do you deserve to be marked?”
She’d nod and he’d bite into her shoulder with blunt teeth. “Good” he’d whisper in her ear as he smoothed his hand down her back.
“Such a pretty back, Buffy. Such pretty skin. Let’s split it open, shall we?”
And he’d dig the point of his knife into her flesh and start to draw it down her body. He’d go deep enough to draw blood, but not deep enough to scar. He was sometimes tempted; he wanted to leave a permanent mark so that anyone who dared touch her would know to whom she belonged. But no scars was their only rule. Buffy wouldn’t allow there to be any physical evidence of their coupling.
Angel had to content himself with the mark that still lay on her neck from his first bite all those years ago. That bite had been deep, he’d drawn on it for several long moments, she’d have that scar forever.
He’d slide the knife through her, keep moving the blade until the number of dead girls was carved into her back and she bled like they had bled.
He’d watch, as the skin split open and the blood began to flow, and for a moment he’d feel like a sixteen year old boy about to come in his pants. His fingers would twitch with barely restrained energy. His muscles would coil in anticipation of touching her.
He’d lean in and touch his tongue to her skin, let the rich copper liquid flow into his mouth. He’d follow the lines of the numbers and lick up every drop of fluid, and then he’d worry the wounds with lips teeth and tongue to coax more of it from her body.
By this point her breath would be erratic, her pulse wild. Sometimes a moan would escape her lips and he’d remind her with a sharp slap to her thigh that she was to stay silent. She’d wriggle as he nipped at her flesh, sometimes moving away from the discomfort sometimes pressing back against it. Any pause in his ministrations would result in a rapid inhale or a whimper.
When he’d licked and sucked up every drop, he’d stand behind her, draw her back so she could feel his erection against her ass. He’d unzip his pants, angle her hips, and enter her from behind.
Her cunt would contract around him and she would grow impossibly wetter. He’d have to grip the base of his erection hard to keep from coming on contact. She’d grind back as much as she could. He’d thrust once, twice, three times before pulling out. She’d moan as he exited and he’d nip at her shoulder.
He’d have to take a moment, take a few unnecessary but calming breaths, regain control before circling to stand in front of her.
“Do you deserve to come, Buffy?”
He’d watch the emotions play across her face, see the way she longed to beg for it, see how much she thought she shouldn’t, see how she knew that she wasn’t allowed.
He’d lean in and bite her earlobe. “I don’t think you’ve earned it yet.”
He’d run his hands all over her body, memorizing the contours of her skin, teasing her with light touches to all the places she most wanted his hands. When she was barely able to control her twitching muscles and erratic breathing he’d sink his teeth into her skin. Sometimes it was her shoulder, sometimes it was her breast, sometimes it was the place where the curve of her ass began. The bites were shallow but they still drew blood.
He’d swallow a few times and then move to kneel in front of her.
“Don’t come until I tell you to.”
She’d nod her agreement and he’d bite into the tender flesh of her inner thigh and start to suck. Each pull brought her closer to orgasm and when he could taste the beginnings of it he’d pull his fangs out of her flesh.
“Come, Buffy,” he’d whisper as he moved to standing and she’d cry out as the first wave of her orgasm hit. He’d drive into her spasming pussy and thrust against her fluttering muscles. Her legs would wrap around him holding tight as her back arched. They would be locked pelvis to pelvis lost in the hot-wet-fast coupling. Her orgasm would trigger his and he’d pull her close and moan her name into the soft curve of her neck as his hips moved against hers, losing rhythm as his urgency increased.
When they were both spent he’d zip himself up and then undo her bonds and help her over to the couch he kept in the corner of the room. If any of the cuts had reopened he’d grab the first aid supplies and clean her gently. Then he’d lie down beside her, pull her into his arms and hold her. Sometimes she’d cry. Sometimes she’d sleep. Sometimes she’d tell him small mundane details of life after Sunnydale, she’d tell him about Dawn or her friends or about the plants she perpetually struggled to nurture in her apartment. Sometimes she’d ask about him, about the work he was doing with Spike and Illyria, about the books he was reading and the movies he’d seen recently.
There was never much substance to the conversations, and they never talked about her work.
When she was calm and clean and rested they’d stand. She’d walk to the neatly folded pile of clothes she’d taken off before they started and she’d put them on slowly. He’d pull on his shoes and shirt never taking his eyes off Buffy. He’d memorize the way her muscles moved under her skin, knowing that this was all he’d get of her for the next month.
When she was dressed she’d come stand in front of him and put her hand on his chest. “Thank you, Angel. So much.”
He’d nod, and then cup her face and lean down to kiss her. It was always long and slow and soft. And it was always the only kiss they shared.
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