"Ecstasy - I Would Die For You"

Author: Vatrixsta Cruden
Contact: trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: The song is by Garbage.
Dedication: As always, to Esmerelda for the fabu beta, and also, to Carrie, because she does SO give good feedback.

i would die for you
i would die for you
i've been dying just to feel you by my side
to know that you're mine
i will cry for you
i will cry for you
i will wash away your pain with all my tears
and drown your fear
i will burn for you
feel pain for you
i will twist the knife and bleed my aching heart

"Rise and shine, lover."

Awareness returned slowly. Angel had been sleeping the sleep of the dead, not haunted by visions of Vampire Buffy for the first time since her appearance three days before. The first thing he saw upon opening his eyes was the vial of powder -- Corinthian, if Wesley's theory about Darla had been correct -- lying on the bed. The second was the scantily clad blonde on his chest.

"Buffy," he mumbled, moving to touch her, though whether to pull her closer, or push her away, he'd never know. His wrists were bound to the bed.

"Magic shackles," she informed him with a bubbly little smile. "Not even supernatural strength can break them." Her face loomed closer, and she pressed her mouth right against his ear. "We should get a second pair when we work out these difficulties between us."

"Difficulties?" he asked, a bit stunned.

"You know, our issues. The reasons we aren't together."

"You're evil," he said, as though it should be obvious. He was beginning to feel a bit like a broken record.

Her eyes rolled. "Come =on=, Angel, every couple has problems. I have more faith in us than that. My therapist says you're obviously not trying very hard."

"Is this the same therapist you ate?" he asked coldly.

Seemingly oblivious to his tone, Buffy nodded happily. "My first minion," she explained. Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "She's =very= good."

"I didn't think bondage was your style," he commented, trying to find a way out of his current predicament.

"You'd be surprised what my style is now," she replied, shifting against him so that the leather shorts she wore rubbed against his stomach. The matching black bra was a nice touch. "I paid a little visit to someone you know."

Fear seized him. "Who?" God, don't let her have killed another of their friends...

"Your sire."

The relief nearly paralyzed him. "Darla," he whispered, a weight he hadn't realized existed lifting from his shoulders. He wouldn't have to do it again. He wouldn't have to kill her. Instead, he'd have to drive a stake through the heart of the only woman he'd ever loved...

Buffy misinterpreted the grief that crossed his face. "Don't you =dare= mourn her," she hissed, digging her fingernails into his chest, drawing blood.

Angel bit back a grunt of pain, a small twitch by his left eye the only move he made to betray just how much that had hurt.

"I could smell her on you, you know," she continued in a conversational tone. "The moment I was in the same room with you again, I could smell her all over you. After that, I knew I had to look her up."

"You always were the jealous type," Angel muttered.

"Oh, you have no idea." Her mouth pressed against his jaw. "I want to skin alive every woman who's ever touched you." Her tongue darted out to swipe over his chin. "It's a good thing most of them died a long time ago, or I'd have quite the body count piling up, wouldn't I, Angel?"

He tightened his mouth, trying not to look at her, trying not to react to her being so physically near. His mind knew it wasn't Buffy, but his body was crying out for her touch. Even after that touch had hurt. Maybe because of it. Angelus' sexual appetites were legendary amongst the demon community, as were his preferences. He liked pain, almost as much as he liked pleasure. That wasn't something he'd ever wanted Buffy to know, but it seemed she was destined to learn all of his secrets.

"No matter," she said lightly. "I'll find Drusilla, and any other little whore you've bedded since we've been apart."

"There hasn't been anyone else." The words left his mouth before he could stop them. What the hell was wrong with him? Confiding in her would only give her more power over him than she already had. "Except Darla," he qualified, acknowledging that he really couldn't help himself. She was Buffy, and no one knew better than he did just how much of the person a vampire once was remained.

"Really?" Damned if she didn't look innocent in this moment, he thought dazedly.

"This is insane," he mumbled aloud. "You're evil."

"You know, I'm getting really sick of that," she stated flatly. "Every time we start to fight, you bring up the evil thing."

His mind instantly went back to another conversation, another fight --

*"'Danced with' is a pretty loose term. 'Mated with' might be a little closer."

"Don't you think you're being a little unfair? It was one little dance, which I only did to make you crazy, by the way. Behold my success."

"I am not jealous."

"You're not jealous? What, vampires don't get jealous?"

"See? Whenever we fight, you always bring up the vampire thing."*

I can't do this, he thought, feeling panic bubble up. I can't kill her, I love her, and I don't care if she's soulless, I should, I want to, but I don't.

"Can't do what?" she asked, sounding annoyed, and he was dumbfounded to realize he'd spoken that first part out loud. Had he truly lost all sense of self-preservation when it came to her?

"Have this conversation," he lied quickly.

"Tough," she said lightly, "because we're having it. And then..." She ran her hand along the length of his stomach, then ran a single fingernail over the patch of skin above his pubic bone.

"So you want to talk first," he said, desperately trying to ignore the sensations she was sending through his body. It really wasn't fair that she could affect him like this.

"You make me sound like such a girl," she groused. A sigh left her mouth. "You're really uncooperative like this."

"I get cranky when I'm being held prisoner," he deadpanned.

"If I unlock you, we won't have sex," she said reasonably.

"We haven't had sex for a long time," he pointed out.

"And I've missed you like that," she informed him, pressing her upper body to his. Her voice turned baby soft. "Haven't you missed me, Angel?"

"I've missed... I've missed who you were," he said tightly.

Her mouth pursed, and perversely, he felt badly for hurting her. Huffing, she turned her head from him and laid it against his chest, just below his breastbone. Her cheek pressed against the top of his ribcage and despite everything, his arms ached to hold her.

"Were you all fuzzy when you woke up?" she asked at last, lazily tracing circles around his nipple, a single fingernail occasionally flicking over the slashes that still bled slightly.

If he looked down, his nose would be buried in her hair. How unfair, that she stilled smelled like Buffy, and not some creature he'd have to kill. Darla had smelled different human, but Buffy, while clearly dead, still retained the scent that had always made him long to swallow her alive, that scent that never failed to snap his body to attention.

It would be easy to pretend that he didn't know exactly what she was talking about. It would also be the smart thing to do. Unfortunately, Angel hadn't done the easy thing since before he was turned, and he'd never been good at choosing wisely. He led with his heart.

At the moment, his heart was breaking at the feel of Buffy's flesh against his own.

"No," he answered honestly. "I recognized Darla. I didn't know what I was, but I knew who I was--"

"Me too," she interrupted. "I mean, I even knew what I was, cause, you know, witness my life. I've killed like, a zillion fresh risers, and they were all crazed and confused. But when I first woke up, everything was so amazingly clear, and the only crazed thought in my head was that I was very, very hungry." She punctuated that statement by taking a mouthful of his flesh into her mouth, nibbling on it with blunt teeth, swiping her tongue around his left nipple.

He was furious his hands were chained, but not for the reasons he should have been. He desperately needed to want to kill her, when all he really wanted was to touch her back, to let his hands roam over her body and re-learn all the curves and sensitive spots he'd nearly forgotten. It had been years since he'd touched her on that day that had never been, and longer still since their first time; her first time.

What would it be like now that neither of them needed to breathe...?

A groan left his mouth before he could stop it, and she smiled in satisfaction. Bowing her head, she ran her tongue along the slashes she'd made on his stomach. She began to lap at them until they stopped bleeding. Then, her mouth traced open-mouthed kisses around his belly button, down, down, until the blanket that just barely covered his lower body impeded her progress. Whipping it away, she slid further down his legs until she was kneeling between them, her gaze never leaving his.

Buffy had never done this for him, except for once on that day that never was. The first and only time they'd been together, she had been innocent and very new to lovemaking. They hadn't taken a lot of time with foreplay, too desperate to feel one another, to remember that they were alive and here. At the time, they'd thought they'd had all the time in the world to do it right the second time. After he'd come back from hell, they'd been too nervous around each other, too scared of what might happen to test the bounds of his curse too much.

Their lost day was hazy to him, and the more time that passed, the more it began to feel like some fantasy he'd dreamed up, than a reality that had happened, once upon a time. Sometimes he wondered if he hadn't made the whole thing up to make himself feel better, to pretend they'd been able to give each other something outside of pain and longing. Sometimes, it made him feel better about himself to think of all he'd given up so that she could live.

He was no longer comforted by that thought. He didn't have time to reflect on all his past sins -- real or imagined -- because in that moment, Buffy's mouth closed around his hard, aching cock, and he stopped thinking of the past entirely.

Her tongue was cool, her lack of body temperature obvious. It should have been a turn-off, but served the opposite effect. Part of him had always been aware of just how dead his skin was in relation to hers. He liked that they were the same now, and he hated himself for it.

Blunt teeth scraped along the head of his penis, nibbled at the foreskin, teased him until he cried out softly. This wasn't right, but he doubted he'd have been able to stop her even if he hadn't been shackled to the bed.

Buffy darted her tongue out, took long, sinful licks around the base of his cock. She circled her tongue around the tip, then laved the whole thing like she was eating an ice cream cone, complete with the little "mmm" noises in the back of her throat.

"Buffy," he whispered after a few moments.

Her mouth released him, and she slid back up his body, shedding the leather bra she wore as she went. Soft, naked flesh pressed against his upper torso and he let out a hiss of want at the sensation, even as her skin irritated the cuts she'd given him. He'd told her once that it felt good just to feel. He hadn't known the half of it then. Apparently, everything she did to him, he craved.

"Yes, my love," she whispered, before bestowing a sinful, open-mouthed kiss to his lips.

His mind dazedly recognized that this was the first time they'd kissed since her sudden appearance four days before. His tongue had already reacted, moving to twine and duel with hers as he lifted his head off the bed as best that he could, seeking more of her taste. Amazing, that she managed to taste the same, too...

Again, her hands slithered down his body, but this time they came to rest on the leather that she wore. With a few twists of her hips and legs -- which caused a moan or two to escape from his throat -- the last barrier between them was gone. Her legs twined with his, a knee on either side of his hips. His raging erection was pressed against her wet curls and his gaze was drawn to the sight.

Gently, she placed a hand on his chin and tilted his head back to meet her gaze. A lazy smile spread across her face and she leaned toward him, nibbled on his lower lip, tugged and worried at it until it bled a little. Then, she hungrily lapped at it, let her tongue dance into his mouth again until they were both sharing his blood.

"I want to touch you," he mumbled, incoherent but for the need to feel her flesh beneath his hands. Already, he felt his wrists chafe from all his ineffectual tugging.

"I wish I could trust you, lover," she whispered sincerely. Her mouth moved along his cheek, his jaw, nuzzling his skin. He returned the caress, nuzzling her cheek with his nose like a big cat, taking her earlobe between his lips, sucking and pulling at it with his teeth.

"Buffy," he found himself murmuring softly, like a prayer.

"Until then, though," she added, impaling herself on his shaft with one sharp, sudden stroke, "we'll have a lovely memory to keep warm with during the long daylight hours."

She rode him hard, all pretense of teasing gone. Her nails raked up and down his sides, traced the outline of his ribs, flicked over his nipples. His hips thrust against hers savagely, gaining leverage by utilizing his bound hands as a brace. She opened tiny, shallow wounds all over his upper torso with her nails, and the pain was ecstasy to him.

Somewhere along the way, both their faces changed, morphed, and he suddenly found Buffy's ridged forehead pressed against his. Her hand was on his cheek, then it moved forward, and her wrist was right there, pressed to his mouth. Her gaze caught his before she buried her face in his neck, piercing his flesh with her fangs, suckling hungrily like an infant at her mother's breast.

Barely a moment of indecision ran through him before he ripped into her wrist with brutal force. He'd been starved for her since that night they'd lain on the floor of the mansion, that night she'd saved him so long ago. It might not have been =her= any longer, but it came from her body, and his senses didn't seem to care as he drank from her, long and deep.

They both cried out, high, keening sounds as pain and pleasure, ecstasy and grief ran through them, flavored their blood even sweeter. They stopped drinking from one another at the same time, each licking identical puncture marks closed until they stopped bleeding.

They came down, resting against one another, not panting. Vampires didn't pant after sex, Angel remembered blearily, they just hummed. Every nerve ending, each drop of blood simply hummed with energy. The feeling wanted to make him do something ridiculous like climb a mountain, or go out and slay a demon... or do it all over again.

That thought brought the rest of his consciousness back. God, what have I done? he thought, gazing down at the hurricane of blonde hair covering his chest. And how can I still want so desperately to run my fingers through her hair?

"Buffy," he said aloud.

No response.

"Buffy," he called again, a little louder.

Her cheek rubbed against his chest, like a child spread across the full length of his body. That illusion was shattered by her inner muscles lightly contracting around his softened penis, still held within her. She made a soft, "mmm," sound and he felt his head hit the back of the headboard with a muted thud.

The slayer for the side of good, turned evil vampire had fallen asleep.

And his wrists were starting to bleed.

"Fuck me," Angel cursed quietly, then winced at his entirely-too-appropriate choice of words.

i will lie for you
beg and steal for you
i will crawl on hands and knees until you see
you're just like me
violate all the love that i'm missing
throw away all the pain that i'm living
you will believe in me
and i can never be ignored

The End

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