Title: Scar Tissue
Character/Pairing: Riley/Dracula, mentions Buffy/Riley
Highlight for Warnings: ** Bloodplay, m/m**
Disclaimer & Distribution: Recognizable things aren't mine but the fic is. Please don't archive or distribute without asking.
Summary: Riley makes a mistake. Takes place at the end of 5x01 - Buffy vs Dracula
Word Count: ~1,000
Riley can't get the scar out of his mind.
He knows it wasn't Buffy's fault, knows in his mind that it was a thrall, that it wasn't intentional, that she hates that Transylvanian hack as much as he does.
Still, betrayal burns deep in his gut.
He doesn't understand.
The doubts circle in his mind, always wondering, hoping, fearing, and when Buffy refuses to talk to him, nothing but a simple he's gone, followed by radio silence, he knows it isn't over.
It's not over.
And there's only one way to make sure it never happens again.
"What did you do to her?" His voice echoes in the room, bouncing off stone walls, stone floors, stone ceiling. He turns, peering into the shadows in one corner of the room, then twisting to look behind, beside…even bending to look under the table.
The hair stands up on the back of his neck.
He whirls around again, heart pounding in his chest. He feels like a damn tweaker.
"Come out where I can see you…you coward!"
"Coward?" The barest hint of an exhale caresses his neck.
Gasping, he turns once more, staggering back as he takes in the pale face only inches from his own.
A deep chuckle rings through the castle.
"I knew you were still here."
"It appears to be so." Dracula smirks.
"She swore you were gone, but I knew. She's still under your thrall, isn't she?" Reaching out, he grasps the ridiculous cape and uses his height to loom over the vampire.
Dracula's lips curl into the barest hint of a smile, and suddenly, the material is jerked from his grasp and he's flying through the air, crashing into one of those damn stone walls and he crumbles, limbs twisted, dizzy from the fall.
Vanishing from his spot across the room, Dracula re-materializes just inches away, leaning forward, dark hair brushing against Riley's forehead. "You shouldn't play with things you don't understand, boy."
He grits his teeth. "Leave her alone."
Riley blinks. "What?"
"The Ssslayer," he hisses, his breath cool against Riley's ear.
"You have no idea. What she is, where she comes from. Let me tell you, boy,"—somehow Dracula manages to come even closer—"she's darker than the things she hunts."
"No." The denial comes immediately, springing from deep in his gut and out his mouth before he can think.
"Yes." Dracula's eyes flash; a chill runs down his spine as he realizes how alone he is, how stupid he's been.
Still, if he's going to die, he won't go a coward.
"You don't know her."
He flinches as cold fingers brush against his temple, dragging down his cheek to end at the curve beneath his jaw. It almost feels like a caress.
"Such a sad, deluded little boy."
Riley grunts as the touch turns harsh, fingertips digging into the hinge of his jaw, forcing his teeth apart.
"I think it's time to burn that delusion right out of your pathetic little skull."
He tries to protest as his head is wrenched to the side, hands like iron holding him up, suspended inches from the floor, his arms and legs dangling uselessly at his side.
He tries to move; his limbs don't obey.
He wants to shudder when a cool tongue begins lapping at his throat, but even his bodily reactions have been taken, seared away by Dracula's touch.
And then fangs sink into his skin.
Light pulses behind his eyelids—strobes of crimson, flashes of black—as his body is flushed with warmth. He twists in Dracula's grip, arms and legs jerking with the pulse of Dracula's swallows. His dick is swollen and hot in his jeans, rubbing against the seam where a firm thigh is pressed close. He wants to pull away, wants to press closer, wants to die and float away and wants to live forever in this moment because nothing has ever felt this good.
He sucks in a long, harsh breath when Dracula pulls away, blood dripping from his chin.
The room is filled with the echoes of his screams; he hadn't even realized he was making noise.
"Yes," a voice speaks, melodious and perfect, and he goes limp against a cool body, trembling and relaxed—with the exception of the hot pulse of blood and electricity between his legs.
Dracula smiles, and the clouds roll in and the sky goes dark and he's been such a good boy, and when he's pulled closer, chapped lips speaking—"and now for a little taste"—against his mouth, he whimpers and laps at Dracula's fangs with his tongue.
Before he can breathe, his lips are ripped apart, and he's possessed, violated by Dracula's tongue. His mouth fills with blood and the metallic goodness envelops his senses and every hair stands on end. Lightning zings along his spine and he arches forward, rutting against a hard body once, twice…and the world goes black as he shudders, and comes.
He wakes alone, cold.
And somehow, he knows that Dracula's gone, not just from sight, but from Sunnydale.
He tries to ignore the pulse of dread in the pit of his stomach.
Grimacing, he climbs to his feet, pulling at the sticky mess in his boxers.
He's clearly had a nightmare, because what happened, definitely did not happen.
A nightmare, that's all.
When he gets home, he dumps his clothes in the trash and slinks straight into the shower.
He washes until the bar of soap is nothing more than a sliver.
Toweling off, his gaze is drawn to the mirror; twin puncture wounds adorn his neck. It looks just like the scar Buffy has. The image of Buffy wearing a scarf flashes through his mind and he's flushed with shame.
He feels dirty.
He climbs back into the shower.
He's still alone.