Pairing: B/Aus, mentions of B/A, B/S
Timeline: Alternate season 2. Before 'Passions' - Jenny is alive, though that doesn't really matter for this particular fic.
Series: Twisted. This is the prequel to 'Conflicted Individuals', which can be found at my site, Sciomachy - http://www.liquid2k.com/sciomachy . Enjoy.
Disclaimer : Joss owns all. I bow to him. I use some lines from a song, 'Closer' by Nine Inch Nails (Ballad of B/Aus, B/S)
Rating: Hard R, light NC-17.
Distribution: Let me know if you don't archive me already.
Dedication : Fred asked me for this a long time ago. Sorry it took so long.
Feedback: Yes, yes please.

The first time it happened, I sold my soul to save a life.

He had Xander, I remember... Xander cornered and helpless, unconscious from the blow to the head he'd received, and the words... God, I don't even know where they came from.

"What do I have to do to make you leave him be?" I asked, as if I truly believed that there was *anything* I could do, as if I thought that he was a reasonable man.

The question worked, though, because he stopped in his tracks, and lifted his head, turning to stare at me. "What are you willing to do?"

I gulped, seeing the way, even then, that he was looking at me, noting the way his eyes lingered on my neck and flushed breasts, the curve of my hip as I tried to stand defiantly against him. "You know me," I said flippantly. "I'll do anything to save a life."

He smirked, "I do know you," he said, and came closer, cornering *me*.

Damn.

His hand came to rest on my hip as he leaned in, reminding me of ((Oh, god, Buffy, you smell so good...)) the many nights I spent with my Angel in the graveyard, whiling away long hours with tongues and teeth and hands, and, inevitably, the single night we spent really together. As in, you know, intimately. Biblical.

I didn't really think of this as quite so holy.

"I do know you, lover," he repeated, "I know there are certain things..."

His hand brushed upwards, dislodging my shirt a little. I could feel his cool fingers on the flesh of my belly.

This wasn't happening.

"...That make you squirm."

"You don't want that," I said, shaking my head, clearing it, realising he was playing with me.

"Maybe I want that because I know you don't," he said, that same old familiar smirk crawling across his lips like storm clouds. He scented the air, his eyes twinkling, "Or, because you want to pretend you don't."

Hey, can I help it if feeling his body pressed up against mine after so long without it gets me a little... excited?

"Shut up," I said, shoving him away, momentarily forgetting about Xander slumped in the corner. When I realised what I'd just done, my eyes widened, and I felt fear coursing through my veins.

In a fair fight, I could beat Angel... but nothing about fighting Angelus is fair, and I'm exhausted in so many ways that I no longer bother keeping count. I can't fight him any more, knowing that when it comes to the crunch, I'll look into his eyes, and wonder if they'll ever hold that warmth again.

And just the thought that Angel, the real Angel, my Angel, could come back, always stops me dead in my tracks.

Which is how Xander came to be thrown unconscious to a corner, and how I ended up, soul tired, bone tired, injured and gazing at my ex ((I miss him, Will... I miss him so much)) with eyes full of ... submission.

And then he was smirking, and then he was moving towards me again, and his lips were on mine, and I could taste my own blood, pumping, and hot, and copper tang between our mouths.

He was claiming me as his own again. And I let him.

When Xander woke up, I told him I fought Angelus off, fists of fury.

And he believed me, because I'm Buffy.

I'm Buffy, and I'm good, and I'm innocent.

Only, I'm not any more.

*^*^*^*^*

He looks up when I stalk into the room, and I see the irritation in his eyes, because this wasn't planned between us, and I may well have been interrupting ... something.

Something, with someone else, which makes me frown, my blood churning in my veins.

After a moment, though, the irritation disappears, and he actually looks pleased to see me.

"Good," he says, "It's you."

As if he didn't smell me coming a mile away.

"You were expecting someone else?" I say testily, thinking of long legs and pale skin and anyone else who could possibly find their way into his bed.

"Reluctantly," he replies, but doesn't elaborate. "You're a much better surprise."

"You're a bit distracto-boy tonight," I comment, "Usually you know when I'm on my way over before I do."

He frowns at me, and I hold up my hands. "Hey, just statin' the facts as I see them, buddy."

"I'm not your buddy," he snarls, his mood changing so rapidly that it shocks even me... and I'm fairly used to Angel's soap-opera-style mood swings.

"Woah. Someone got out on the wrong side of the coffin tonight," I snipe, and then I realise that I've been in the room at least 30 seconds, and he hasn't even touched me yet. For two people who only see each other to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, this is bizarre. "What's the deal?"

"What?" he snaps, and then he's moving me towards the door, until my back is pressed against it. "The deal with what?"

"You being all 'PMS, yay!'," I accuse. "I mean, I came over here for a little mutual satisfaction, but if you're going to be cranky, I'm not going to stick around."

He scowls at me, and I feel a single talon of fear rip into my heart.

"You think you've got a choice?" he hisses, his eyes swirling gold, flashing between snatches of brown.

"You think I don't?" I snap back, angry.

He's not allowed to treat me like that. In this, we're equal. In this, we're both the predator.

"Whatever," he says suddenly, shrugging and walking away. He turns his back on me and draws a cigarette from a half empty deck.

"I thought I was - that'd be why I wandered over here when I'm supposed to be patrolling, freshly showered and minus underwear..."

That seems to peak his interest, because his head moves a little, and then he is turning around to study my bare legs, stretching up and up until they disappear under my mini.

Even when he's pretending he doesn't want me, I can tell what he's really thinking, just from the fever in his eyes.

"Have you been out like that?" he asks me angrily, and I roll my eyes because he's such a caveman.

Sometimes it makes me furious that he thinks he can claim me like this, ranting and raging about how much skin I show at times. I long ago conceded to the fact that he and I are joined, primally, probably until my death, but I refuse to be his little dog, chained up to his leash and only brought out into the light when he sees fit.

"God, get over yourself," I spit, "I'm not your *toy*, Angel."

"Yes," he says, voice deadly, powerful and hypnotic. "You are."

In an instant, he has grabbed my wrists and thrown me onto the bed, looming over me like storm clouds, slight chance of thunder.

"You're mine," he insists, and kisses me savagely.

Somehow, I manage to spit out, "And you're mine."

He stops, and glares down at me, "What?"

"I know you're used to being that *Master* around here, but that doesn't count with me." I wrap my legs around his waist, and pull his hips down to grind against mine. "I'm not your whore, unless you're mine. I'm not your slave, unless I'm also your master." When I kiss his lips, I draw my own blood on his blunt teeth, and then I roll us over, so *I'm* hovering over *him*. "Now, be a good boy," I warn, and then we're mating.

It's furious, as usual, bitter and angry and primal and so fucking *blissful* that it barely matters that I'm screwing a demon.

I'm so over that fact. He's a demon. Who knows what the fuck I am? Who am I to judge?

His hands ((claws)) rake over my back, and I smell the tang of blood rising to the surface, and I throw my head back and howl into the night, the pleasure-pleasure-pain screaming through my body, sweat rolling out of my pores like crashing waves.

((You can have my isolation
You can have the hate that it brings
You can have my absence of faith
You can have my everything
I wanna fuck you like an animal))

Being with him, like this, is bestial. We're animals, rutting and mating and nearly killing each other, wrapped up in our cave, grunting and hollering and howling into the flesh of our other.

"You belong to me, too," I tell him after, panting, barely able to lift my head off his chest. "I know that you whore around with your little harem, but, lover, you *belong* to *me*."

His silence is as good as an admission, so I turn my sweaty head up and smirk at him. He's still frowning.

"If you ever so much as *look* at another-" he starts, then scowls and looks away.

I can't help it. I laugh at him. "What, you can fuck whoever you like, but I'm only allowed to be a slut when it comes to you?" I catch his petulant frown, and feel a rush of excitement at his jealousy. "What brought this on, anyway?" I roll my hips against his, "Who is that you think I want to screw?"

"Nobody," he says darkly, then admits, "It's just something Dru told me about Spike."

"Spike?" I say in confusion. I really don't get it. What could Spike *possibly* have to do with me?

"He's consumed by you," Angel growls, "He wants you."

I laugh again, and say, "Don't be ridiculous. It's *Spike*. Spike *hates* me."

Angel just stares at me, and I get it.

((you can be my everything))

There's fine line between love - lust - and hate.

I mean, aren't Angelus and I the perfect example of that?

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