Warning: This story is strictly for readers 21 and up. It is erotica and graphically describes sexual behavior between two adults (well, one's 242 years old, so he makes up for the other). If you are above consenting age, feel free to continue. If you are not, go back now. If despite this warning you choose to continue, I cannot be held responsible for any consequences.

"Okay, everyone look at me like I'm in a bunny suit 'cause that's how stupid I feel saying this..." --Buffy

Believe it or not, Angelus was hounding me to write this. The rat bastard. I hope he's happy. And Buffy, I apologize.

Disclaimer: Buffy and Angel belong to Joss Whedon, WB, Mutant Enemy, and 20th Century Fox. I am not making a dime off this, and if I were... ooh, would I be feeling skanky.

Feedback: always welcomed at hutch @ jazmer.com.

Buffy softly moaned, blinked as she awoke. She was disoriented for a moment, as the room was dark; slowly, she realized that it was still the middle of the night.

She sat up in bed, running her hands through her hair. Why was she awake? A nightmare, a dream..?

The images came back to her almost at once: Angel above her, touching her, kissing her, making love to her. They were eerily clear and strong in her mind, as if it had only been hours ago that they had made love, instead of months. That one time only, and never since had she been able to touch her lover, except in pain.

Disgusted, she got up. She was wide awake now, and there was nothing for it but to go out and hunt. It was only a little after 1:00, so she knew she'd be more than likely to encounter some unlucky vamp on whom she could work out her frustrations. She dressed quickly, in comfortable, dark clothes, pulled her hair back in a hurried ponytail, and grabbed her bag of accessories before sliding open the side window and slipping outside, making sure to stay quiet so as not to wake her mother.

Her feet knew her pattern so well that she didn't even have to concentrate on where she was going, although tonight that was a bad thing; she wanted to not have to think about the dream. It had been so vivid, so real, that even now she could still recall the feel of Angel's fingers on her bare skin, or how it felt to have him inside her. It had been so intense, and not all of it pleasurable, since it had, after all, been her first time. He'd wanted her to feel no pain, she remembered, but they'd acknowledged that impossibility with light, loving laughter.

It was with no great surprise that she looked up at some point and found herself before the door that led down to his apartment. She hadn't been there since the night after her seventeenth birthday, yet her footsteps had led her irrevocably here. It wasn't too late. She could turn back.

She allowed herself a wry smile and pushed open the access door, heading down the concrete stairs to the basement apartment.

The door was unlocked, and as she slipped into the apartment, she noted to herself that someone really should do something about the security. Nothing had been touched, however; it was as if Angel had left only minutes ago, with every intention of returning. Well, she didn't know; maybe he still spent time here when he felt like being away from Spike and Drusilla. The place didn't feel inhabited, though. A light coating of dust covered the books piled on the desk, the statue case against one wall, even the sheets on the neatly-made bed. He hadn't been here in some time; or if he had, he hadn't sat, slept, or moved anything.

She drifted across the room towards the bed. The very immaculateness of it almost made her cry; it was as if the last traces of their shared physicality had been erased by the neatening of sheets and straightening of pillows. Slowly, she sank down onto the bed, letting her head fall into her hands. She didn't want to remember, and yet she couldn't stop remembering.

"Well, well. Looks like I have an uninvited guest."

His voice startled her to her feet. She reacted without thinking: a stake slid from the sleeve of her jacket into her hand while she assumed a fighting stance, ready for action. He was standing by the door, gently pushing it closed. A smirk graced the face she had once looked upon so fondly.

"Aw, don't be like that." He gave her a sad, puppy-dog-eyed look and stuck his hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat as he began to move around the apartment, keeping to the walls. "Here I was thinking you missed me."

"Sure I missed you." She tried to be flippant. "Come closer, and I'll show you how much."

"You ever think about it? That night? I know I do." He glanced up at her every so often, that little-boy smile she had loved so much on his face. "Even after all this time, I think I can safely say I'll never forget it."

"Me either," she replied tensely. God, what did he want? Why was he doing this? "Are we gonna fight now?"

He chuckled lightly. The sound of it bruised her heart. "Come on, Buffy, I came to kiss and make up."

He was right next to her before she could react, his hands clasping her shoulders tight enough to cut off the circulation to her arms, or so it felt. The stake hung uselessly from her hand. She had never realized before how strong he was, how easily he could kill her. He'd toyed with her in the past, and before the change, he'd always been so gentle that she'd never contemplated how vicious he could be. His hands slid swiftly to her wrists, binding them behind her back in an iron grip.

"I guess I'm just gonna have to prove it to you," he murmured, and bent to kiss her. It was not a gentle kiss, not in any way like the sweet kisses they'd once exchanged. He was forceful, angry. Buffy whimpered against his mouth in pain, struggled and squirmed in useless attempts to free herself from his grasp. It was no good; he had her firmly and wouldn't let go.

Then his touch softened, and the kiss deepened. She found herself answering against her will, against her every active thought. Her long-dormant hopes began to surface again - God, if only--

When he released her, it was with a dark laugh that reminded her of exactly who she was dealing with. "Oh yeah, that was good. You liked it, I can tell. I can smell you."

She fought harder in his grasp, but could not budge his hands. She refused to meet his eyes, to admit that his kiss had stirred her. It had been so long, and she wanted him so badly.

"Damn you," she muttered, and he laughed again.

"Too late for that," he replied. "You going to struggle? You know I'll enjoy it more if you do. Or even if you don't."

She couldn't escape it. Her mind fled down every avenue of hope and found nothing but dead ends. She saw one last chance when he flung her to the bed, but that, too, was dashed when he crouched over her, pinning her body with the weight of his own, while his free hand reached in the nightstand and came out with some sort of rope. Buffy pushed at Angel's shoulders, hard; her Slayer strength should have allowed her to fling him away, but she couldn't budge him.

"Play nice, lover," he breathed in her ear. The heat of his words sent an involuntary tingle throughout her body. Memories flashed back in rapid succession: his face pressed into her shoulder as he came; his hands stroking her hips, holding her gently but firmly underneath him; the tender touch as he'd brushed her damp hair back from her face. She fought back tears of grief, praying that the ordeal would be over quickly and that she'd be allowed to stake him afterwards.

He was tying her down to the bed now, with her arms spread apart above her head. She would have kicked him in the groin, but he kept his weight on her legs as he applied himself to making sure she couldn't escape her bonds.

Task complete, he straddled her waist and knelt over her. She assumed what she hoped was a defiant look and glared at him. "You're gonna have a little trouble, lover, since you forgot to take my clothes off."

He only grinned down at her. "That's half the fun, remember?"

She couldn't forget the way he'd undressed her then. Yanking at her shirt, cursing when the wet fabric clung to her skin - and then, how they'd both dissolved in laughter at the shirt's decided resistance. Now, though, it was entirely different.

He produced a knife from his pocket. As she realized his intentions, she was suddenly glad she'd worn an old shirt tonight. The tip of the knife traced a pattern in the bared hollow of her throat, pressing lightly into her skin just enough that she could feel the sharpness of it; then he abruptly grabbed a handful of fabric at the collar and tore into the shirt with the blade. Buffy swallowed a scream, determined to keep from showing any weakness.

The knife sliced through the cotton shirt easily, baring her torso. He smirked a little at the sight of her plain white bra; then he dug the point under the strap between her breasts and sliced that apart as well. Now her entire upper body was exposed to him, at least to the shoulders, since he hadn't bothered to push the fabric off her arms. His eyes danced maliciously.

"Now isn't this a pretty picture. Gosh, you're so cute, I don't even know where to start."

"How about like this?" She tried to get leverage with her legs to shove him off of her, but he somehow anticipated the move and shifted to prevent her from moving.

"No, that wouldn't be half as much fun. Besides, if you knock me out, who's going to untie you, hm?" His hands ran up along her sides, then, his palms moving up her arms and back down again. And then he was over her, kissing her harshly, hands rough and forceful on her breasts, her nipples--

She couldn't stop a whimper from turning into a moan. Goddammit, how can he do this to me?! She could feel her nipples going achingly taut under his alternating gentle and rough hands. One second his thumbs were light and tender, the next he was pinching the pebble-hard nipples between his fingers without any consideration at all. And his kisses, his kisses: first harsh, as he thrust his tongue cruelly into her mouth; then sweet, and he was nibbling on her lips like they were candy.

He pulled back suddenly, allowing an inrush of cool air between them. She gasped, and gasped again when her eyes flew open and she saw his demon face. The vampire face; she'd even been able to look past that and kiss him, touch him in love, back then. Now...

"You like it rough. Wish I'd known it then."

"Bite me." She regretted the choice of phrasing the moment she uttered the words, but it was too late. He started laughing low in his throat.

"Aw, thanks. I think I will."

His head came down to her breasts, and she cried out now when his sharp teeth closed on one aching nipple. She couldn't tell if he was breaking the skin - she wasn't sure of anything now except the intense sensations set off by the powerful feel of his teeth kneading her sensitive, sensitized skin. His hand worked her other nipple at the same time, leaving Buffy helpless to do anything but tremble and moan as the intensity of the sensations writhed through her, sending hot, shimmering quivers straight to her core. Some dim part of her brain recognized that she was in a very bad position, but another part - a part she'd never heard from before - was strongly suggesting that while she was here, she might as well enjoy it.

She felt his free hand wandering over her stomach, down to the closure of her jeans, and her hips bucked against him involuntarily. He chuckled against the tender skin of her aureole as he unfastened the snap, his fingers snaking into her jeans. Buffy moaned. She thought she would die from shivering - her whole body was shaking now from what he was doing to her.

Fingers threaded through the fine hairs surrounding her core, pressed tight for space inside her jeans, sliding into the lips of her pussy, and his sharp teeth on her nipple at the same time shot lightning straight through her. First one fingertip, and then another, squeezing into the slick tissues--

Buffy let go of a strained moan that she could no longer contain, and was rewarded by Angel's chuckling. His voice had deepened, become oddly husky, when he spoke again; the words brushed against her skin, feather-soft.

"Yeah, Buffy, that's it, scream for me..."

She panted frantically, trying hard to disobey him in the only resistance left for her to muster. But even that failed her when his fingers sank deep inside the hot melting core of her; she couldn't keep from crying out in a mixture of ecstasy and agony.

His fingers felt so good, even if they were compelled by a demon with her lover's face; but at the same time, it wasn't enough; she wanted more.

He kissed her again, harsh and intense. Despite herself - or maybe because she was so lost in the rush of sensation that she had forgotten any and all sense of self - she responded with a kiss equally powerful, full of strength fueled from somewhere deep inside. This time, she was distractedly pleased to note, it was Angel who groaned at the intensity.

"Come on, lover," she taunted. "Now who wants it?"

He pulled away from her with a snarl of rage. The swirl of cool air on her fevered skin made her suck her breath in; but he didn't go far. He was pulling his clothes off as if he couldn't get out of them fast enough. Buffy panted, watching his body revealed beneath the shirt and pants. She had remembered him in love; now she would remember him in lust, and then ash. Because no matter what happened, she would get out of this and kill him.

The planes of him were as smooth, as lean, as she'd remembered; the broad shoulders, tapering to the flat chest muscles and down along his stomach, to the dark hair where his cock flourished, fully erect. It made her throb just to look at it.

He was over her again in an instant, this time yanking her jeans off her hips in a hurry. She squirmed frantically, as anxious as he to be rid of the garments. With the jeans shoved down to her ankles, he shoved her knees apart, positioned himself and buried himself to the hilt in one fevered thrust.

Buffy's head snapped back as she let out a throaty cry, her hips arching up to meet him. She was past all attempt, all pretense of protest now, fully lost in the intensity of the shivering, bright sensations arcing through her body. The fact that her hands were still tied up seemed to only add to the tension and excitement of the act: she couldn't touch him, couldn't affect him physically; he still had complete control over her.

But she was affecting him physically, just by her own reactions. His hands clenched the sheets on either side of her body, and his head sank, then flung back in the rhythm of the mating. The snarls and growls issuing from his throat turned her on even more, and she twisted and writhed beneath him, sinking ever deeper into heat and ecstasy.

His fangs raked over the soft skin over her throat in time with a hand fastening on one breast, and an instant of alarm flickered through her awareness - he's-going-to-bite-me! - bare seconds before he broke the skin over her clavicle. The pain jolted her back to a state of semi-lucidity; she tried to yank at the ropes, to get away before he killed her. Her efforts were useless. And suddenly she realized that he wasn't drinking from her, only tasting; if he'd meant to kill, he would have gone for a major artery in her neck.

If anything, the taste of blood had only heated his ardor. He forced himself into her harder and deeper, his hard, cold cock finding depths inside her that she'd never known existed. One of his hands slipped down between them, between her heated skin and his cool flesh, finding the tiny nub of her clitoris. Buffy bit down another moan, whimpering loudly as he rolled it between two fingers, in time with his pounding thrusts.

Another, and another, and she could feel every inch of him, erection cold as fire inside her. She slung her legs around his waist, hooking one ankle over the other, and with her knees high, he was suddenly pushing even deeper within. It was the heightened intensity of sensation that she could feel pushing her closer, ever closer to the edge; she squeezed her eyes shut tight against it, not wanting it to happen so soon, but she couldn't resist, and stars burst inside her eyelids, white sensation thrumming through her entire body, and she arched slick skin against him and cried out, hips bucking again and again and again--

He groaned as agonizingly as if the sound of her cries tore him apart, the tight muscles of her core squeezing him, forcing reaction out of him where he'd wanted to maintain control, and he couldn't fight the orgasm as it washed over him in a powerful rush, dragging his resistance away and leaving ecstasy in its wake. Panting for air, he swam back to sense of self, and realized he was gripping handfuls of the sheets in white-knuckled fists.

Buffy was looking up at him, her face a mixture of puzzlement and post-orgasm bliss. Angel smiled tenderly, leaning down to kiss her, and then reached up to untie her bonds. Task accomplished, he rolled to his back, curling her gently into his arms so that she lay, soft and sweet as a kitten, on his chest.

She was giving him an uncertain smile, and he brushed her hair fondly. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she said, softly. "Just - still shocked, it was all so intense. And good," she hastily added, with a quick kiss and a lazy purr.

"Good," he murmured, eyes already half-lidded in the lazy post-coital pleasure of simply holding his love. "We'll have to try this roleplaying thing again sometime..."

END

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this page last updated on 18 january 2003