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Beautiful Captive
Author: Dani Shafer
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, I just have fun with 'em.
Feedback: DaniMarieShafer@aol.com
Rating: NC-17 (Dark for implied non-con and language)
Pairing: Buffy/Angelus
Summary: Angelus has got the slayer, whats he going to do with her? Based
on a prompt for BtVS_20 - Whats under your pillow and why?
Word Count: 1096
* * *
The whore before me sobs for a key, sniveling and dismal, and enough to
make me retch. It is the key she thinks will save her and it rests safely
underneath the crimson chiffon that clothes my imported feather pillow.
When she looks longingly at my bed, blood red sheets rumpled and saturated
with our combined secretions, I know that is where her vision extends.
Why keep it under my pillow?
Because that key locks me inside of my paradise, and no one, not her
precious scoobies, nor my faithfully pathetic minions will unlock this
gift. Under my pillow is where no soul, dead or alive, would dare to tread.
I have the key, I hold the power, and there is nothing, not even a second
death that could separate me from my desires.
* * *
...And now onto the drabble this prompt inspired... Rated NC-17 for
implied non-con, Buffy/Angelus, and bad language...
* * *
I watch her with an amused smirk, my beautiful captive, as she struggles
against the heavy pewter manacles that chain her to my concrete wall like a
feast laid before me. I can hear them clinking together like the birds that
whisper into the darkness of the night. Metal rubs against metal, heavy and
binding, and it fills me with so many memories of torture, sex and death.
I'm hard, aroused, and can't wait to sink my fangs into her neck as I find
a way to fuck her in some new and humiliating way.
I am nothing if not inventive.
Long blonde hair moves over her bare arms and breasts, the tips of her
golden tresses arousing her dusty nipples into hard points. Her arms are
lifted high above her head, her wrists bruised and chaffed as they hang
limply through the too tight holes. Our eyes meet, her illuminate pale
olive orbs wide with fear and the arousal she tries to fight.
Her legs, long and lithe, move against one another in mortification as my
eyes settle at the apex of her thighs. Soft, dewy brown curls cover her
from my sight, and the growl that rips from my throat is enough to force a
captive moan from between her swollen and pout-y lips. I jump towards her,
moving without being seen, until I stand right before her.
I don't feel the change anymore; I do not need a reflection to see the
ridges that morph my deviously handsome face into that of a beast. I can
see it in her eyes: terror, fear, and just a touch of desire.
She twists her head to the side, her tear filled eyes ashamed and unable to
meet my knowing sneer. The velvet softness of my moist tongue flicks out
over my lower lip hungrily as I follow the lines of a maroon double stream
of blood that has dried and stained her skin. The two rivers curve down the
pale surface of her neck, over the blue and green bruises that litter along
her collarbones, and then disappear down the valley that runs between the
small mounds of her breasts.
Like it had just happened, I remember the feel of my fangs as they melted
through the tender part of her neck. I remember the rich pleasure that had
surged into my mouth too fast to avoid the precious elixir that dripped
from my lips and off my chin. I remember the way I came, cold jets of
creamy fluid that had stained her stomach and dripped to the mix with the
blood on the floor.
I'd beaten her for that, beaten her because it was her fault that I'd
exploded without even having to be inside of her. No one, not even my
whore, holds power over me. I am superior, the alpha, and the one that
demons whisper in fear of.
I take a step closer to my consort, my black combat boots heavy and echoing
against the concrete ground. I could move without a sound if it pleased me,
but it doesn't, I enjoy the way she trembles as she associates that sound
with the knowledge of what will happen next. When, if, I ever let her go,
which is doubtful, she'll never be able to hear boots tromping behind her.
Never. I've made sure of that. I've got her where I want her, I'm selfish,
crass and vindictive, and these are my better, more redeeming qualities.
Her scent surrounds me, makes my rigid cock throb against the tight black
leather confines of my pants as I inhale as much of her as I can in one
deep unneeded breath. I smell her desire, potent, heady and musky. I smell
her fear, rich, delicious and addictive. Under that, is the power that
races through her veins, thick and red, and almost more arousing then the
sight of my milky come as it drips over the purple bruises that line the
insides of her thighs.
My hand is tender, only for a mere unspoken moment, just enough so that I
draw her eyes away from the bed and into the eyes that I know are golden
and fierce. She gasps, the sound so sweet it makes me remember why she is
still alive, why I haven't killed her yet. I twist my hand forward,
grabbing her cunt roughly as two fingers become lost in the slippery
hotness that is mine.
She is mine.
I've marked her, fucked her, and held her at my rage filled whims for too
many days to count.
"The key Angelus...please. Let me go." She pants as I draw a
destructive climax from within her.
It's becoming too easy, and I mock the boredom that creeps along my spine
like spiders.
I shake my head and I feel the pathetic soul that lurks inside of me weep
for her. There is pain inside of me, so deep that if I needed to breath I
would suffocate. Doesn't soul boy understand that it makes it worse? For
every thought that isn't my own, for every picture of gentle kissing and
hand holding, the suffering that I'll bring to my unfaithful whore will be
ten fold.
Angel cries inside of me, Buffy weeps and I, well I, laugh with mirth as
she sobs and fights against her chains. This, at the exact moment when I
feel her split open around me, is why I keep the key under my pillow.
I might grow bored in an hour, a day, or a month. But who cares? I'll kill
her and find someone else to torture...
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