Pairing: Vamp-Willow/Angel
Rating: NC-17
Distribution: Near Her Always, Bite Me, Please? Shades of Grey and Soulmates. Anyone else, if you want it, just ask. I always say yes.
Spoilers: Picks up in the middle of Doppelgangerland from Season 3.
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon created the characters and wrote the episode on which this is based.
Dedication: To Gabrielle, as promised. Since it's a bit late for a birthday present, I just knew it would make the perfect valentine for you.
Warnings: *Semi* non-consensual sex. The sex is very much a vampire power play and it gets a bit rough. If you like warm-fuzzy Angel, then this really isn't the fic for you.
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~Part: 1~
Angel knew he should be hurrying. Hurrying? Hell, he should be running. Sprinting, even. Moving as close to the speed of light as a well-motivated, demon-occupied body could manage. He should have arrived at the school ten minutes ago in a burst of inhuman speed instead of where he was: dragging his feet as he wandered aimlessly through the cemetery. Buffy was in danger and he knew that she needed his help. Buffy, the woman he loved, his soulmate, his. his reason for being needed him and he had to fly to her side and help her and protect her and.
Screw it. It wasn't working. He couldn't even convince himself to start walking *quickly*, much less buy into the rest of the nonsense he was using to give himself an (ineffective) internal pep talk. Buffy needed him; that much was true, but he had no real urge to rush to her side. Instead, for the first time in a very long time, all he wanted to do was sit down and cry.
Willow was dead, and it hurt on so very many different levels that he was shocked he was still able to walk upright. It was fortunate that he didn't need to breathe; he wouldn't have been able to, anyhow. She was dead. (Mea culpa) She'd been turned. (Mea culpa) She'd already killed. (Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa)
Angel couldn't help but blame himself. He should have kept a closer eye on her. He should have taken care of her. He shouldn't have let Xander's hostility and Giles' contempt and Buffy's angst and his own weakness prevent him from being where he *knew* he was supposed to be. But he'd been a fool. Just because the gang knew that his soul was back didn't mean that they'd forgiven him for what he'd done when he'd been without it, and after everyone found out about his return from hell, Buffy had told him that it would be easier for everyone (meaning easier for *her*) if he wasn't around unless there was a verifiable, apocalyptic emergency. He had agreed to keep his distance not just from Buffy, but from the gang as a whole.
Truth be told, he hadn't put up much of a fight when Buffy made her viewpoint known. Deep down, he'd been relieved to agree. Buffy had no idea just how damn *hard* it was to be around her lately. He had tried to explain it to her, up there on the hilltop on Christmas Day, but it hadn't gone quite as he had planned. She refused to listen to him. She didn't seem to want to understand that it wasn't the demon in him that was a threat to her; it was the man.
The demon in him was strong, yes. Ruthless, yes. Evil? Most definitely yes. But the demon was also caged in by the curse of his soul, and could only be displaced, if precedent could be believed, by another slayer-flavored roll in the hay. If it was solely up to the demon to choose either freedom through the gateway between Buffy's thighs or eternity trapped behind the soul, then the demon would be caged by the curse for the next thousand years. One thing that the demon in him *wasn't* was sexually attracted to Buffy. The demon wanted to kill her in a very slow and painful way and then litter the countryside with bits of her corpse, but he would fuck a fungus demon before laying a finger on her. It was a slayer thing.
No, if Angel was ever going to lose his soul through an orgasmic moment of bliss with Buffy then the blame would rest solely with the man in him: the weak-willed, trouble-making, drunken sot of a man-that-was that never had been able to keep his pants zipped for long around a pretty woman. Buffy had always clung to the idea of his humanity, excusing her love for him by saying that he was different from other vampires; he could be trusted and even loved because he had a human soul inside of him, along with the demon. She never understood that the side of him that provided the soul, the side of him that was the basis for Buffy's trust in him in the first place was, whether Buffy would admit it or not, the real source of danger. It wasn't that the man in him particularly wanted to hurt her or bathe in her blood as the more demonic side of his personality demanded. No, what the man in him wanted was far more dangerous.
He wanted to fuck her.
To be fair, that side of him had always wanted to fuck Buffy, from the first moment that he laid eyes on her. She was just the type of woman he used to play with in the alley outside of his favorite pub when he was a young man: blonde and petite with a wardrobe that provided easy access to wandering hands along with a minimalist approach when it came to clothing material that 'laid all the goods in the shop window.' In his day, when a woman showed that much flesh to a man in public, it meant that she was simply asking you to name a price for a sample. From the beginning, just looking at Buffy made Angel think of sweaty fumblings and panted breaths and the pleasant restrictions of trousers down around his ankles and legs locked around his waist.
Fortunately, Angel had managed to develop something resembling a conscience in the century since his soul was restored. When he sat in the back of the car with Whistler and first saw Buffy standing in the sunlight, his lust at the sight of her body had been tempered with pity and compassion for the life that he knew she was about to lead. Afterwards, he followed her home from the cemetery after she made her first kill. As he trailed her, he noticed the ways in which she had already changed from the innocent, air-headed girl he had watched earlier that day. Gone was the flirty, bouncy, come-hither-and-fuck-me-sideways walk paired with a bright smile. Instead, her face was blank and she dragged her feet like she was sleepwalking, her shoulders slumped slightly as if she already felt the weight of the world resting on them.
He had wanted to help her. The sight of her shifting from carefree self-centeredness to being weighted down by responsibilities and duties that she had never expected reminded him painfully of himself when he was first re-introduced to his soul. No one should have to go through pain like that alone. Besides, there was a certain sort of symmetry to it that he couldn't help but appreciate. In his life as Angelus, he had done everything in his power to undermine the work of the slayer and to make the world as dangerous and deadly for the Chosen One as he could. Maybe by helping the slayer, smoothing her path and aiding her in her obstacles, he could find a degree of atonement.
He had thought it was love. Hell, what did he know? Nothing in his life as a human or a demon had really taught him what love was like. Buffy was tough and spunky and kissed like a professional whore. Besides, she was indisputably one of the good guys, and undeniably in love with Angel, in spite of the fact that he was a demon. What was there not to love? At that time, he thought that his love for Buffy would last for eternity: a love to transcend time and space, life and death. He was wrong. In reality, it lasted about thirteen years.
They weren't big on hanging calendars with pictures of Monet gardens in the darker circles of hell dimensions, but the demons kept their own tally of the time that had passed, carving their timekeepers into his skin in the form of deep, gouging wounds that, as long as he stayed in hell, never stopped bleeding. Most of the memories of the horrors he faced had blended together in his memory, but he remembered with crystal clear precision every time a new year was marked in his flesh. His final count was one hundred and twenty three.
He had loved Buffy for thirteen of them, mentally and emotionally clinging to her to maintain his very sanity as she slowly faded from the image/name/memory that haunted his every thought, to flickering impressions of blonde hair glowing in the sunlight and the remembrance of a warm touch, to the vague recollection that at some point, back before the hellish eternity of the demon dimension, there had been someone, somewhere who mattered to him. When even that faded, the last of his love was gone. By the time the fourteenth mark was carved, she had been forgotten.
But then he was back, and there she was. The memories of their love returned to him gradually, along with the memories of how to speak coherent sentences and tie his shoes. The *memories* of their love returned; the love did not.
It was bad enough that he didn't love her anymore. What made it worse was that she still loved him, and showed with her every action that the very thought of him not loving her anymore had never even occurred to her. And what made it worst of all was that despite his dead-and-gone love for her, he still wanted her. She was, after all, the only woman within a hundred miles that he had fucked in the past fifty years. It was only natural that being around her would make him horny. Before, when he had loved her, it had been easier to force himself to be patient with her. He hadn't wanted to hurt her, or frighten her, or rush her into doing something that she didn't want to do. Waiting had almost seemed natural. back when he loved her. But he wasn't in love with her anymore.
She still desired him; he could smell it whenever they were close together. It would be so easy to make her give in. She wanted it. He wanted it. Without love getting in the way, there was even the chance that they might both be able to enjoy a nice round of hard, animalistic fucking that would get them both off without endangering his soul. And if his soul did leave him, then at least he'd be free of all of it: free of the oppressive weight of Buffy's love, free of his own indecisiveness about what he should do with himself now, free of the restrictions of a soul that brought him nothing but misery and guilt with no chance of ever finding peace. The only thing that stopped him from giving in to his lust and simply taking what he wanted was Willow.
Willow.
Just thinking of her name hurt. He felt like a part of him had been killed right along with her. In truth, he realized, part of him probably *had* been killed: the part of him that came from her. Willow hadn't told him what she had done, but he knew it just the same. It was difficult business to pull a soul out of the void and force it into a demon-possessed body. The only way that it would work was if the caster was willing to anchor the curse in place with a piece of his or her own soul. He had felt a piece of the gypsy woman's soul mingled in with his since the first casting of the curse, passing along the poison of her hatred for him and driving him into even deeper hatred of himself. If Whistler had found him while the gypsy was still alive, then all the shiny, happy blondes in the world wouldn't have been able to motivate him to pull himself out of the gutter. It wasn't until the gypsy died, taking the worst of Angel's guilt into the grave with her, that he was even capable of functioning again.
Willow's soul, of course, was blessedly different. Where the gypsy hag had cast the curse to punish his demon, Willow cast it to protect his soul. Instead of dragging his spirit down with guilt, her faith and confidence in him lifted him up. He felt stronger when she was around; calmer and more confident. The lust and apathy that swamped his senses when Buffy was around was replaced with a sense of purpose and connection and understanding. He liked himself better when she was close by. Instead of despising his vampiric nature, he liked that he was strong and fast and capable of protecting her. Most of all, he liked the way that she believed that he *would* protect her, in spite of all that he had done to her in the past. Her unquestioning belief in him gave him the strength to believe in himself. Finally, he knew what it truly meant to have a soulmate: someone who completed him in the best way possible.
His soul was utterly enamored with her. The problem was, the soul wasn't the only one. The demon found her entrancing, as well. While Buffy carried the disgusting stench of slayer embedded in her very skin, Willow smelled like magic and innocence and just a hint of darkness from where she had given up a piece of her soul for him. The only thing that could have made her scent more delectable would be the addition of lust, and when she began her supposedly furtive gropings with Xander, the mix was complete. The demon wanted her. Badly. So did the soul, for that matter. Of course, where the soul wanted to protect her and cherish her and lay the world at her feet (not to mention, show her how very much happier he could make her than that idiot Xander could ever *dream* of), the demon wanted to turn her and claim her and make her his mate while they destroyed the world *together* (beginning with Xander, since the demon was more than a little jealous of his stench on her, as well).
His soul was stronger when she was around, but his demon perked up in her presence as well, and wanting her as badly as he did was a recipe for disaster. Avoiding her altogether seemed to be the safest option. He had thought that he'd be able to keep his distance but still maintain her safety by going to all the demon haunts he could find and putting the fear of everlasting torment into anyone who showed the slightest inclination to put so much as a shadow into her path. Apparently, he had been wrong.
He didn't know who was responsible for turning her, but he would find out. And when he finally lay hands on her sire, hell wouldn't *begin* to describe what he would put the sorry bastard through before he was done with him.
Angel wasn't aware that he had dropped into game face, nor did he know that he was growling as visions of chainsaws danced in his head. He was so caught up in his thoughts and his pain that he was as oblivious to his own actions as he was to his surroundings. This changed a moment later when a voice piped up from the shadow.
"Someone's a growly bear," the sing-song voice teased. Angel froze in place as Willow stepped closer, bringing her body up inches from his. "Shall we see if I can cheer you up?" she purred, trailing a fingernail from his between his collarbones down his chest to hook in his belt, "puppy?"
~Part: 2~
Angel swallowed audibly. She'd obviously just fed; he could feel the warmth of the blood in her touch, and smell the last traces of it on her lips. They were still red with it and they looked so delicious. so tempting. so.
"You're so quiet," Willow commented, stepping away from him and pursing her delectable lips up into a pout while her eyes sparkled wickedly. This would be fun; she could tell already. "You're going to hurt my feelings. Don't you want to play with me?"
"I'm not in the mood for games," Angel hissed, holding himself rigidly still so he wouldn't give in to the instinct telling him to run from her as fast as he could. or the instinct telling him to step closer. He forced his fangs to retract and his appearance to return to his human guise. Now was most definitely *not* the time to be giving into his demon. He had to be strong, he had to keep his *soul* strong, for the sake of Willow-that-was, if nothing else. He couldn't let this new demonic version of her break him.
"But we could have *such* fun," Willow teased, batting her eyelashes at him.
"I'm not in the mood for *fun*, either," Angel growled.
"Poor Angel," Willow cooed in mock sympathy. "You look like your puppy just got run over by a truck. or." her smile turned wicked, "turned into a vampire." Angel's flinch was miniscule, but Willow was watching him far too closely to miss it. "Why Angel, I never knew you cared." His jaw clenched, and Willow bit back the urge to let out a triumphant laugh.
Ever since she had arrived in this screwed up pseudo-Sunnydale, everything she had encountered had been a disappointment. The Bronze was a hang-out for teenagers. *Living* teenagers: the annoying, oblivious kind who didn't believe that vampires were real. Xander was alive. The Master and Darla, according to the minions she had 'acquired,' were dust. They also informed her that the slayer lived locally, and apparently, this place's version of Willow was actually *friends* with the Chosen One, not to mention dating that White Hat musician with strange hair. Just the thought of it made her shudder. It brought up lots of memories that she had spent a lot of time and energy trying to forget: memories of how *nice* she had been once, how sweet, and fuzzy, and weak, and vulnerable.
Usually, when she was faced with an unpleasant reminder of her past, she'd go snack on an infant, or fuck Xander with a strap-on, or *play* with Puppy. Xander wasn't available at the moment and there weren't any infants in sight, but Puppy was right there, looking strong and angry and deliciously non-housebroken. As if that wasn't prezzie enough, he was also handing her a brand new way to hurt him. Matches and holy water were fun, of course, but there was nothing like good, old-fashioned emotional hurt to make a grown vamp break to pieces. And from the look on his face, Willow would have bet blood that he was emotionally attached to this world's Willow. Seeing this unabashedly evil version of her and thinking that she was all that was left of his one-time friend had to hurt like hell. Willow shivered a bit in excitement and more than a bit of arousal. Nothing turned her on like tormenting Puppy. Finally, she had found something that was an improvement over her world. Let the games begin.
"Don't be sad, Angel," she taunted in the best imitation of her 'sweet and innocent' voice that she could manage. "We can still be friends. Sure, we'll be friends that viciously slaughter small children and bathe in the blood of innocents, but still. friends, right?"
"I won't let you do that," Angel vowed in a hard voice.
"Aww, how sweet! You want to protect my memory, and my dearly departed soul, don't you? Don't you know that you're already too late? I've killed, Angel, and I'll kill again." She stalked toward him slowly, and Angel instinctively moved away from her, taking a step back for every step that she took forwards. "I've bitten into soft, sweet, temptingly vulnerable necks," Willow continued, letting her voice drop into a low, husky tone. "I've sunk my teeth in all the way down until they were fully encased in warm flesh, pumping in and out, deeper and harder every time, licking and sucking until I've drained every. last. drop." Angel jerked in surprise as his back hit stone and he realized that Willow had backed him into the wall of a crypt. Willow smirked in satisfaction before backing away a bit.
"Good times, Angel," she stated breezily. "*Very* good times. You sure you don't want to play?"
His only answer was a low-pitched growl.
"Or maybe you'd prefer a different game?" Willow taunted, going in for the kill. She schooled her face into her favorite let-me-help-you-with-those-groceries-you-weak-little-woman-with-two-small-children expression. "Do you want to play with sweet and innocent little Willow, Angel? Do you want to dress me in something fuzzy and colorful and then *un*dress me, piece by piece?" The tic in his clenched jaw told her that her words had been right on target.
"How long have you wanted me? How many times have you crawled into bed alone and pulled out your cock, rubbing it hard and pretending your hands were mine? It's okay, Angel," she whispered in a voice that sounded so much like the old Willow, it nearly brought tears to his eyes. "I won't be angry. I won't get mad at you if you tell me what you wanted from me. Tell me, Angel. Tell me everything. Tell me your fantasies. Did you picture it sweet and innocent, gently soothing me and teaching me about pleasure? Did you dream of being my first, and feeling me accept you into my body, trusting you with every part of me? Did you touch yourself in your bed to thoughts of holding me in your arms at night, waking me with soft kisses, and seeing my face light up when I saw you beside me every morning?" The tears were closer to the surface now, and Angel bit the inner corner of his lip hard enough to draw blood to keep from showing just how deeply the words affected him.
"Or did you imagine it rougher? Harder? More. demonic?" she continued. The innocence faded out of her voice, replaced with the huskier, sex-on-legs tone from before. "Did you think of what it would be like to train me as your plaything? To make me drunk on the pleasure you could give until I'd do anything for your touch? Did you want me to crawl to you? *Beg* for you? Plead for your cock in my cunt, my mouth, my ass, or one after the other, over and over again till I was covered in my blood and your cum and my voice was gone from screaming your name as I orgasmed uncontrollably, riding an unbearable high from the sweat and the pain and the pleasure of being your whore? Is *that* what you dreamed of when you'd cum all over your hand, shooting into empty space while imagining it was me?"
Angel's eyes slammed shut and he breathed in harshly, every muscle in his body tight with tension as he tried to regain control over himself. "You don't want to do this, Willow," he hissed between clenched teeth.
"I don't?" Willow asked, her voice exaggeratedly innocent. "Are you sure?" He heard the sound of a zipper sliding down. Seconds later, the air was filled with the sweet, heady scent of Willow's heavy arousal and the sound of her pleasured moan.
"Feels like I want to," she teased, breathlessly. In spite of himself, Angel's eyes flew open, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't close them again.
She was leaning her weight against a granite statue of an angel, rubbing herself against the stone with stomach-turning sensuality while her fingers audibly probed her wet cunt, to her very evident satisfaction.
Angel felt like he would be sick. It was like watching someone pissing on a church; the only word he could think of for it was sacrilegious. In life, Willow had been the purest, sweetest, most innocent soul he had ever encountered. Watching the depraved sensuality of the demon who had set up shop in her body publicly masturbating with obvious enjoyment looked like rape. The demon was using Willow's body for its own pleasures, and the sight of it made Angel nauseous. It drove home in the most painful of ways that his Willow was truly gone.
He felt even sicker when he realized that the show being so graphically put on for his benefit was, in spite of his best intentions, turning him on. He was hard already, just from the sultry sound of her voice and the intensity of the images she had described. Willow had been frighteningly accurate: his dreams *had* been haunted as of late with the moans of pleasure Willow might make in Angel's arms while he made love to her. Hearing the moans, in the here and now, was pushing him over the line from aroused to barely-in-control. This wasn't Willow; he knew it wasn't Willow; but it was still her body and her voice, and the reality of her noises of pleasure was far better than he had ever imagined, even in the wildest of his dreams. She sounded positively wanton and his eyes couldn't help but narrow in on the movements of her fingers, visible against the leather of her unfastened crotch, to see which touches brought her the most pleasure. His fingers twitched reflexively, itching to replace hers inside her wet depths but he managed, barely, to hold himself in place.
He couldn't stop his eyes from roaming, though. Her outfit was designed to display every asset and his mouth might have run dry at the beauty of her body if he wasn't next door to drooling at the scent of her arousal. He breathed in slowly, harsh, deep breaths that he hoped would help him regain some form of control over himself, but all they accomplished was swamping his senses with the smell of her sweetly dripping pussy.
His clenched his fists and closed his eyes and counted to twenty in English, Latin and Gaelic while forcefully telling himself that his erection was not, was definitely *not* hard to the point of bursting. If he hadn't been concentrating so hard on his fervent denials, he might have noticed Willow watching him with a devilish grin, pulling her fingers out of her pants, and approaching him quietly with her hand outstretched.
The next thing Angel was aware of, something wet and sticky was being forcefully spread over his lips. This time when Angel's eyes flew open, he saw Willow standing directly in front of him, with her fingers still outlining his lips with her juices.
"Don't I taste like I want to?" she asked, licking her lips in deliberate provocation. Distractedly, Angel mirrored her motion, and bit back a groan at the sweet, powerful taste of her on his lips.
"It doesn't have to be like this, Willow," Angel managed to gasp out in a shaky voice. "I can help you-"
Angel's voice cut off abruptly when Willow, ignoring his attempts to reason with her, choose instead to drop to her knees and close her lips around the tent pole threatening to break out of his trousers. She sucked him hard into her mouth, soaking the material with her saliva before pulling back so that only the tip remained between her lips, lashing at it with her tongue. Her fangs dropped, piercing easily through the cloth and grazing ever so slightly against the sides of the head. Angel tried to gasp and moan at the same time as his brains melted and started leaking out of his ears. Forget sentences; he'd never be able to form a coherent *thought* again, not after seeing Willow on her knees before him and feeling her mouth. oh gods below, that *mouth*!
She broke contact with his erection, (Angel fought the urge to grab hold of her head and shove it back into his crotch, forcing her to suck him some more,) leaning back to grin up at him, still in vamp-face. It was the first glimpse Angel had gotten of her demonic visage, and he didn't even have the energy to waste being disgusted with himself when he realized it made him even more turned on. In spite of himself, his face shifted as well. He could cling to his soul and his illusion of humanity and morality all that he liked, but there was no denying that facing Willow like this, demon to demon, brought out every wild, animalistic, feral instinct he could never quite suppress. He wanted to pounce, attack, rip off her clothes and rut with her in the dirt. He wanted her to fight him, digging her nails into his skin, thrashing, clawing, biting until she gave in to his strength, his domination, and her own need for him that was as strong as his need for her.
She ran her tongue over her lips like a cat licking up the last feather of a delightfully chewy canary. "Tastes like you want to, too," she smirked, drawing her tongue hyper-slowly back into her mouth. With deliberate intent, her tongue brushed against one of her fangs as it slid backwards, opening a tiny cut.
Angel's nostrils flared as he took in the sudden scent of her blood. If it had just been blood it would have been bad enough, but what really set him off was that it smelled *familiar*. He had assumed that Willow had been attacked by some random vamp who didn't know about her connections. After all, if she had been turned to bait the slayer than her sire would have held her under wraps for a bit longer, waiting for the perfect moment to strike before releasing her into the fray. But when the smell of her blood registered, a new possibility occurred to him. Perhaps she had been turned to bait him, instead. What other explanation could there be for her blood? What other reason could there be for Willow being a childe of the Order of Aurelius? It was the one trigger that it took to carry him from barely holding on to totally out of control.
His soul didn't have the energy to be in charge anymore, and Angel lacked the willpower to push it to the fore. In the misery of the past few months, the only thing that had given his soul any strength, the only thing he had *loved* and valued about his soul was the connection that it gave him to Willow. He had clung to it because it tied him to her. Other than that, it was an unceasing burden to him that brought him nothing but misery, loneliness, and guilt. Now that Willow was gone, there was no reason for him to cling to it any longer. It didn't leave him; only a moment of perfect happiness could break that curse, and Angel's soul was about as far from happiness as it was possible to get; but it stepped back, ceasing control. And when his soul stepped back, his demon came forward.
He growled, amber eyes flashing as he grabbed hold of her shoulders, and dragged her up his body until she was back on her feet. "Who did this to you?" he snarled.
Willow was too busy preening for successfully getting under his skin to realize just how angry he was. Her answer was flippant. "Is that any way to welcome me to the family?" she teased.
Angel spun them around so that her back was against the side of the crypt, pinned in place by his tall frame covering hers. "Where's your sire?" he demanded. "Tell me. Now!" He shook her to emphasize each word, slamming her body against the harsh stone wall. Mentally, he was wracking his brain for who could have been responsible. He'd turned a fair number in his years as a vamp, especially right after being cursed with his soul, when Darla kicked him out. He wasn't used to being alone. But no amount of fear of their sire could prevent his childer from hunting and feeding, and eventually, he left them behind, cutting all ties. In the years that followed, he had run across some of them again, and had learned the hard way that childer don't take well to being abandoned by their sires. He had dusted a few, which succeeded in signaling the rest of them to keep their distance. Which one had stepped forward? Which one had done this? Which one had chosen to claim the prize that Angel had only ever intended for himself?
"Dust," Willow answered succinctly and accurately. Darla *was* dust; in this world, at any rate. Angel didn't need to know any more details than that, especially if she was going to keep up the game of being this world's Willow.
"Who was it?" Angel asked again, his grip growing even tighter on her shoulders as his rage started to take over. She still had that smirk on her face and it was driving away the last shreds of his self-control. Bad enough that he wouldn't be able to personally punish whichever fool of a childe had done this to her, but for her, a mere fledgling, to show him such disrespect made his demon roar in anger.
Willow laughed. "I don't answer to my sire," she retorted. "Why should I feel the need to answer to you?"
"*I'm* your sire, now," Angel growled, slamming her against the wall one more time. "I'm the eldest of your line, so in the absence of your sire, you belong to *me*."
He spoke the phrase by instinct, but even as the words came out of his mouth, a wave of red-hot possessiveness swept over his body. With her sire gone, she belonged, by vampiric law, to him. His demon claimed hers, utterly and completely, knowing that if the soul hadn't been in the way, she would have been his childe, his creation, his *possession* all along. She *should* have been. She still would be. Without a pause or so much as a twinge from his soul, he jerked her head to the side, shoved in his fangs, and began to drink.
~Part: 3~
Her blood was intoxicating. Feeding off of humans was fun, of course, and the fear and shock that flavored their blood was always a toothsome treat, but there was nothing quite like feeding off another vampire. He could taste her demon in her blood, and his own demon responded to the dark wickedness of it, making him shiver in delight while he pressed his body closer to hers. He was so wrapped up in the taste of her and the pleasure of feeding off of her body that he barely noticed her arms twining around his neck while her legs slipped up around his waist. It wasn't until she began rocking her hips against his, rubbing her crotch against his prominent erection, that he snapped out of his blood-flavored haze. So, his little kitten thought she'd be the one controlling this little encounter? Well, she could think again.
In one swift, smooth motion, Angel detached Willow's limbs from his body and stepped back, leaving her to fall on her ass on the ground. She looked up at him with an expression of mingled shock and anger and growled softly at him, shifting her weight to her knees so she could stand. Angel's hands slammed on to her shoulders, holding her in place in her kneeling position.
"I like you on your knees," he purred. One hand remained on her shoulder while the other snaked out to tangle in her hair, holding her head firmly in place. She struggled against him, but even with her demon, she was still no match for his strength.
"I don't like this game," she growled.
"You will," Angel answered, lazily rubbing her soft hair between his fingers. "But we'll be playing it my way. And this game starts with you swearing your submission to me."
Her only reply was a low growl and a jerk against his hands as she tried to pull away. She only succeeded in tightening his grip.
"If you won't submit to me *willingly*," Angel stated with a smug smirk, "then I suppose I'll have to *convince* you."
Willow yelped as the hand in her hair tightened still further, yanking her forward until she was face down in the dirt. Before she had a chance to react, she felt Angel's weight drop on top of her, pinning her to the ground. A razor-sharp fang nicked her ear, followed by the cool suction of Angel's mouth. "When you're ready to acknowledge that you're *mine*," he whispered, "just call me sire. Do you understand?"
"You are *not* my sire," she hissed in reply.
"I will be soon," he answered, slipping his hands underneath her body to unfasten the laces of her corset top. When they were loose, he shoved the top up over her breasts, baring her torso to his exploring hands. While one hand toyed with her breasts, rolling and pinching the rapidly hardening nipples between his strong, calloused fingers, the other hand slid along her back in between their bodies and grabbed hold of the waistline of her pants. They were still unfastened from when she was playing with herself earlier, and it was a simple matter for him to pull them down to her knees, leaving all the most vulnerable parts of her body exposed to his touch.
He yanked her partially upright against his body, her bare back pressed against his chest, and grabbed hold of her hands. Gripping her wrists tightly, he guided them behind her back, leading them to take hold of her ankles, which he shoved close together, spreading her knees as far as the leather pants would allow.
"Better hang on tight, princess," he hissed in her ear. "You're going to need something to hold on to long before I'm done with you." Willow snarled wordlessly in response, but Angel's grip on her hands only tightened. "Either you grab hold of your ankles," he added, "or I push you back down into the dirt. It's your choice." Willow let out a low, dangerous growl, but allowed him to fasten her fingers onto her ankles and anchor her grip in place with his own large hand covering both of hers.
Angel smirked at her position. He had known that she wouldn't want to be pinned to the ground again; his little hellcat was far too proud for that; but the position she had chosen left her far more open to his exploratory touch. With her hands bound behind her back, her chest arched instinctively forward, displaying her bare breasts openly, while her widely parted legs left her sex utterly unprotected and already partially spread. Angel's smirk faded a bit as he inhaled deeply. Her pussy was still wet from being played with earlier, and it smelled positively delicious. *Too* delicious. In order to properly discipline her and assert his authority over her, he had to remain in complete control, and find a way to ignore the fact that his prick was so hard, it was literally pulsing inside of his pants.
Placing his knees on either side of her ankles, he pressed his crotch against her back, nestling his groin in the vee created by her backward reaching arms, and rubbed himself against her, barely managing to bite back a groan. It felt amazingly good. Willow, sensing a chance to turn the situation to her advantage, wiggled back against him, creating as much friction as possible between her body and his cock. Angel's expression hardened. He wasn't about to let her get the upper hand just because he wanted her so badly that he couldn't see straight. This was *his* game and they would play by his rules. If anyone was going to be driven mad with arousal, it was going to be *her*.
"Mmm, feels good," he purred, unzipping his slacks so that his erection could have direct skin to skin contact with her body, rubbing more firmly against her and leaving a sticky trail of pre-cum against her flesh. "But if you're going to be rubbing me, maybe I should be rubbing you, too?" he suggested, letting his hand slide lazily over her torso, slipping down from her collar bone, over her chest, between her breasts (barely grazing the sides of them), down her stomach, past her belly, and to the top of her nest of wet curls, then back up along the same path. Now it was Willow's turn to shudder.
"Mine," he growled possessively, claiming every inch of her with his touch. "You might not have admitted it yet, but you're mine now, and I will *never* let you go. You will belong to me, *my* childe, *my* possession, *mine*, body and demon, till the end of time." Angel's hands grew less lazy and careful in their movements, no longer simply skimming the surface of her flesh, but instead digging in, gripping onto handfuls of her soft curves, leaving bruises behind as he fondled her roughly. Willow responded with a shiver of lust, the possessiveness of his words and his fiercely claiming touch making her weak with pleasure.
"Get used to the feel of my hands on your body," he continued, nipping not-at-all-gently at her neck while his fingers closed in on her groin. "Get used to being under my control." He pulled and pinched at the lips of her pussy, tugging sharply at the neatly clipped hairs, but not allowing his fingers to dip inside. "Get used to the way that my touch makes you respond, because this is what you're going to feel every day and every night for the rest of eternity."
Finally, his fingers slid inside her pussy, but they only remained for a teasingly short moment, gathering her abundant moisture on his finger. He pulled his finger free a moment later, placing it firmly on her stomach and digging his fingernail into her flesh, drawing a thin line of blood that mingled with her arousal. Purring with pleasure at the combined scent, he used her blood and her juices to form a large, elaborate A on her stomach. "Tell me you're mine," he whispered. Willow whimpered in response, but didn't speak.
Angel's fingers slipped back down to her pussy, parting the slippery lips and running his index finger back and forth over her entrance. "Once you submit to me," he told her, "and admit that you're *mine*, I'm going to take you home and chain you to the bed." Willow let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. "I'm going to take you every single way I can think of until you forget that you've ever had anyone but me, until you forget that anyone in the world ever *existed* other than you and me." His strokes against her opening grew firmer, brushing a bit higher to graze against her clit.
Willow's hips were attempting to thrust against his careful fingers, but he held her still against his body, only allowing her the pleasure that he chose to give her. She was being driven out of her mind with need, and could feel tears of frustrated desire building up in her eyes. They were the first tears she had experienced since the day her heart stopped beating. None of her wide and varied range of experiences since her turning had prepared her for this. She'd never felt so hungry, so needy, so desperate, so. so *wanted*. Angel's words, the way he claimed her with every syllable, aroused her like nothing ever had. His possessiveness moved her even more than his skillful, practiced touch. She didn't want to belong to anyone; she had *never* wanted to belong to anyone. She prided herself on being strong and independent. But *damn* if Angel didn't make the concept of belonging to someone sound deliciously tempting, especially if belonging to someone felt so incredibly *good*.
"Please," she whispered, so softly that Angel barely heard her. "Let me cum, *please*!" Angel escalated his attentions just a fraction, giving her more contact with her clit, but not enough to push her over the edge. It was lovely to hear her beg, but it still wasn't what he wanted.
"Tell me you're mine," Angel repeated, his voice soft and frightening persuasive. "Tell me that you belong to me, and I'll give you everything that you need."
"I need to cum," she pleaded. Angel merely chuckled in response. "Please," she begged, squirming against him. He ignored her, nibbling on her neck instead. "Please!" she tried again, with no result. "*Sire*, please!" she pleaded at last.
Angel let out a growl of triumph before ripping her hand away from her ankles and shoving them in front of her. She barely had a moment to brace herself on her hands and knees before he entered her, shoving his cock fully into her sheath without a moment's warning, pounding into her over and over again.
She came the second he entered her, screaming out her fulfillment as she rode her searing orgasm, then screaming even louder as her pleasure, instead of fading down off of her peak, drove itself even higher. One orgasm turned into an endless stream, with jolts of unbearable pleasure that grew more intense with each thrust.
Her screams mingled with his growls and they gasped and panted and roared out their pleasure at how damn *good* it felt to be fucking each other into the dirt. Willow moaned and whimpered, unable to gasp out any coherent word other than "sire," but every time she managed to say it, Angel started pounding into her that much harder and faster. Bracing his weight with one hand on the ground, he used the other to ravage her body, groping her, clutching at her, turning his nails to claws and leaving bloody gauges in her skin as he marked his possession of every inch of her, especially her tightly gripping cunt where he drove her mad by pinching ruthlessly at her clit and rubbing hard at her opening, where his body so thoroughly filled hers.
Angel felt downright stoned, coasting on an incredible high as he sunk deeply into pleasures more intense than anything he'd felt in longer than he could remember. It was shattering and intoxicating and as dizzyingly nerve-tingling as a direct shot of adrenalin to the heart. He felt her tightening around his cock, tighter with each orgasm, driving him dangerously close to the edge.
"My Willow," he slurred drunkenly in her ear. "Tell me you're *mine*."
"Yours." she panted in harsh gasps. "Always. yours. sire."
After hearing that, he simply *couldn't* hold out anymore. Sinking his fangs into her throat, he roughly sucked in her blood, claiming her in the last, most primal way. Willow screamed at a pitch that would have broken glass if they'd been near any, coming so hard, she went limp in his arms as she passed out. Angel held her limp body steady as he pumped his cock inside her, filling her still-twitching channel with his cum while he filled his mouth with her blood. When he had taken as much as he could risk without causing serious injury, he pulled away, laying her body down on her back on the grass, and ripped his wrist open with his fangs. Though unconscious, her body reacted instinctively to the blood he pressed against her lips, suckling at the wound and keeping it open with her fangs until he pulled it away, content that she had enough. She had accepted him as her sire, and he had claimed her with his blood. She was his now. All his. Only his. His childe. His mate. His Willow.
~Part: 4~
If Buffy had seen him at that moment, she wouldn't have recognized him. His appearance screamed 'vampire' in a way that hadn't been seen by Sunnydale, even when he lost his soul. His 'game face' was proudly displayed, as was the limp body of his mate, cradled possessively in his arms, her clothing still in a loose, half-shredded tangle around her body, allowing the visual and olfactory marks of his claim to roll off of her in waves. With his shoulders back and his head held high, he was not only pure demon, he was pure demon who was *proud* of it.
No longer would the soul stand in his way and keep him from being the demon he was capable of being. Oh, the soul was still there, alright, like a whispering voice in the back of his head, just as the demon had been when the soul was in charge, but it was no longer calling the shots. In a way, he was almost glad that it was there. The soul would give him a hint of restraint, preventing him from flying off the handle and trying to destroy the world like he had the last time he let the demon out of its cage. It would allow him to put up a normal façade while quietly making plans to take himself and his mate out of the country. It would only take just a few days to make arrangements and make sure that his Willow was properly trained, and then they would be in Europe, unliving unlife to the fullest, together, for the rest of eternity.
Finally arriving at the mansion, Angel headed straight to the bedroom and gave a snort of disgust at what he found. He had forgotten that he had made the bed with cotton sheets. Laying Willow gently on a chair, he ripped the sheets off the bed and remade it with the black satin he had hidden in the back of the closet. When the bed was made to his satisfaction, he stripped the last shreds of her clothing off of his Willow and lay her on top of it, grinning with pleasure at the beautiful picture she made with her polished-marble limbs highlighted against the black satin. Only one thing was missing.
The smile was long gone twenty minutes later when he finished digging through his closet and realized that the chains he wanted truly weren't there. He growled in frustration when he remembered where he had left them: the library. Giles had thought they might be needed to restrain some demon Buffy would be fighting. Angel hadn't asked for details; the thought of Giles with chains was disturbing enough on its own. But that had been weeks ago and Giles had never given them back (again, a disturbing thought) which meant that if he wanted them, he'd have to go and get them.
Giles. Library. Buffy. Shit. He had to tell Giles and Buffy (and probably Xander too, while he was at it) that Willow had been turned. More than that, he'd have to tell them that Willow's minions had taken over the Bronze and that Oz had sent him to get help (about an hour ago, Angel realized as he checked his watch. Idly, he wondered if any of the teens in the Bronze were still alive at this point, anyway. He wouldn't be too heartbroken if Oz turned out to be a casualty of war. The drooling mutt had no business thinking he was worthy of Willow in the first place).
Going through what he *had* managed to find in the closet, (he had *wondered* where that leather jacket had gone) he pulled out a set of red satin sheets and tore it to shreds, using the strips to bind Willow to the bed. Hopefully, she wouldn't wake up before he came back; the claiming ritual he had performed tended to keep the newly-claimed childe unconscious for at least a few hours; but just in case, he wanted her to wake up spread-eagled and bound in place. He knew that the thin satin would be no real barrier to her pulling away if she really wanted to, but he hoped that the bindings would remind her of the submission that she had promised him, and that she was his to train now, for as long as it took until he was *thoroughly* satisfied, in every way imaginable, that she was utterly and completely his.
Taking a few minutes to grab a quick shower and a change of clothes (even if Oz wasn't dead *yet*, there was always the hope that a few more minutes might do the trick) Angel grabbed his newly-found leather jacket (Buffy wouldn't think it was suspicious: she'd seen Angel wear that jacket dozens of times; besides, he really *liked* leather) and headed for the door. He paused for one last look back at Willow and nearly lost his resolve to go. She looked so delicious with the black and red satin bringing out the glow of her white skin, which was so beautifully littered with the bruises and gashes he had caused. Letting his eyes trail down her form, his non-existent breath caught in his throat at the view her spread legs gave of the mingled pleasure they had found in each other. When he returned with the chains, he promised himself, he'd join her in that bed and wouldn't let either of them out of it for a minimum of twenty four hours. It would take at least one uninterrupted day of continuous sex until his hunger for her was sufficiently sated to allow him to think about anything else.
Steeling his resolve, he exited the mansion and headed for Sunnydale High. As he walked, he tried to wipe the irrepressible grin off his face and replace it with a suitably angsty countenance. He'd have to look sad, tortured even, as he told the gang that Willow was dead and that the Bronze was under attack, led by a group of minions under Willow's control. Angel felt a muted twinge of pain from the soul. Tired and dispirited as it was, that small twinge was all the soul could manage, especially with the demon so firmly and confidently in charge. The demon ignored it. The soul would get used to the idea of Willow as a vampire sooner or later, and if it didn't, then it could damn well pine away and disappear, for all that Angel cared. Angel had no fear of it, knowing that the touch of Willow's soul was the only thing that would bring it back in control, and that certainly wasn't possible anymore.
No, the soul wouldn't interfere when he told Buffy that she had to go to the Bronze to fight the vampires, and that he would stay behind in the mansion to take care of Willow. He knew that Buffy wouldn't like that idea, on a lot of different levels, but he was certain that once he explained the situation, Giles would back up his claim. Since Willow was a childe of the Order of Aurelius, the only way that they would be able to maintain any kind of control over her would be if Angel took her in hand and kept her from getting out of line. Giles would understand that. And he would further understand that having her *human* friends around her while she adjusted to being a vampire would be a Very Bad Idea. Once he was safely ensconced inside the mansion with Willow, all it would take would be a phone call every day or so to update Giles on his progress 'training' Willow, and they'd be left entirely alone for more than long enough for Angel to arrange his affairs and charter a flight the hell out of Sunnydale. By the time it even occurred to the gang to grow suspicious, he and his mate would be long gone.
The doom-and-gloom expression he tried to force onto his face faded as he thought about it. Unlife would be perfect at last. He'd never have to be alone again; his Willow would be with him forever, with no ties and no responsibilities to anyone other than each other. He'd show her the world, he'd give her every luxury she had ever dreamed of, he'd teach her about every society and civilization under the sun (he was certain her love of learning had been brought over with her; a trait that strong in the living body would never die out completely) and he'd watch with pride as she grew into the magnificent, powerful creature he *knew* she could become, firmly entrenched at his side. It would be perfection, it would be bliss, it would be.
.blown all to hell if he didn't get a grip on himself and put on a convincing act for her idiotic friends. Finally arrived at the door to the library, Angel took a deep breath and braced himself for the most important acting performance of his unlife. If this went well, then everything else would fall right into place. Taking in a few, deep breaths of air, forcing himself to breathe harshly as if he had been running (of course, even if he had been running he wouldn't have been panting since he didn't actually require oxygen to fuel his body, but Buffy always seemed to expect him to pant after running and he'd hate to disappoint her in this, his last, greatest performance for her benefit), he burst in through the door.
"Buffy, I... I just..." he panted out. "Something's happened that..." Angel paused for dramatic emphasis and looked up at Buffy and Xander. To his confusion, they didn't look in the least bit worried; as if they already knew what he was going to say, and weren't bothered by it in the least. That was. strange. Mentally shaking his head, Angel reminded himself that it didn't matter that they weren't wowed by his performance yet. They would be in just a moment, when he dropped the devastating news.
"Willow's dead," he stated, solemnly. To his shock, Buffy and Xander merely nodded knowingly. Dear God, did they already know? Had someone seen him with Willow and gone ahead to warn them? Were they setting him up for an ambush? With his mind frantically trying to process what was going on, Angel barely caught the slight moment of someone to the side of him out of the corner of his eye. He had been concentrating so hard on forcing his lungs to take in breath that he hadn't been using his nose. Taking a quick whiff, his mind automatically registered the scent, and he spoke without thinking.
"Hey, Willow."
Returning his focus to Buffy and Xander, he froze as what he just said finally clicked in his mind. Xander raised his eyebrows at him with a knowing look that really didn't belong on the face of anyone as idiotic and oblivious as Xander Harris, and Angel turned his head again and looked at the figure standing before him. His soul soared forward with such crushing force that his dazed demon didn't stand a chance. It was shoved back into its cage with nary a whisper of protest, still trying to process the sight of the very-much-living Willow Rosenberg standing in front of him.
"Wait a second," he murmured softly, trying to adjust to the 180 twist that his unlife had taken in the span of a second. He looked back at Buffy and Xander for confirmation that he hadn't suddenly gone insane.
"We're *right* there with you, buddy," Xander stated, increasing Angel's fear that his mind had finally cracked. Since when did Xander call him 'buddy'?
"We saw her, too, at the Bronze," Buffy interjected, jolting Angel back into reality. Slowly, the pieces started to fit. The Willow he had been with for the past hour had seemed far too strong, not to mention far too self-possessed for a new fledgling. Most vampires didn't reach that level of control for at least a year, and even then, it took careful training from their sires to bring them to that state. Angel had ignored the evidence in front of him at the time, because he hadn't really cared about explanations, given the circumstances. Now, dozens of possibilities crowded his brain. Maybe she had been brought from the future. Maybe she had been brought from another dimension. There was even the possibility that it wasn't a Willow at all, but an imposter using a clever glamour spell. Whatever the explanation for the Willow that was, at the moment, lying unconscious in his bed, the truth was unavoidable: she wasn't *his* Willow.
The demon in its cage howled in anguish as it sunk in that his mate was an illusion. All his plans, all his hopes and ideas and dreams for the future vanished. The pain of it nearly brought Angel to his knees, and the words he had planned to deliver with such pathos and dramatic flair fell woodenly from his mouth.
"She went back with a cadre of vampires looking to party. They're still there. I came across her on the way here, and managed to knock her unconscious. She's back at the mansion."
The rest of the gang immediately rose to their feet to weapon up and head out. Moving on auto-pilot, Angel followed them, barely hearing Buffy's words, "We can figure out who she is *after* we stop the feeding frenzy," as they headed into the hallway.
"How many of them were there?" Buffy asked, all business, completely oblivious to the pain wracking through Angel's body.
"Eight or ten," he managed to answer once the question registered.
Buffy turned to Giles to ask a question, but Angel didn't bother paying attention. His mind was filled with desperate thoughts of what choices were open to him now. Maybe they would let him keep the vampiric Willow? It would be a shoddy substitute for the real thing, especially since he didn't know how much in common she had with the woman he so completely adored, but it would be better than nothing. Or would they send her back to wherever she had come from? Would he be left with nothing other than the memory of how perfect everything had seemed for an hour or so before it all got shot straight to hell? Angel snapped back into awareness of the conversation when he heard Willow's voice.
"Guys?" Angel immediately froze and turned to look at her, not noticing that the others had done the same. "What are we gonna do with me? The... other... me?" Angel bit back a groan. He had some ideas, alright. But could he get away with them? Looking around, he saw Giles and Xander looking similarly 'lost in thought' and bit back a growl. If either of them thought they'd be left in charge of the other Willow, then they had another thing coming! Even if she wasn't the real Willow, he had no intention of letting either of them put so much as a finger on her.
"I don't know, Will," Buffy answered when she realized that all the men were lost for words. "I mean, we just have to stop them."
"I-I get that," Willow stammered, in that utterly adorable way of hers, Angel noted. "I just kind of wanted to know." she paused, and Angel saw her face light up a bit, as if an idea had just occurred to her. His suspicions were confirmed by the next words out of her mouth. "Oh! Hey, uh, go. I-I'll catch up." The others nodded and kept walking, but Angel grabbed hold of Buffy's arm.
"I'll stay with Willow," he stated. "Who knows how long she'll take, and she shouldn't be on her own." Buffy nodded in agreement and smiled at him to thank him. Angel didn't notice, since he was already on his way back to join Willow.
He walked inside the library just in time to see her lean over the counter, reaching for something on the other side, giving him an exquisite view of her glorious backside. He hadn't had a chance to take her there yet, and he had had such plans for it! Angel barely managed to stifle his moan, but it was still loud enough to catch Willow's attention. She jumped, startled, and whirled around immediately, relaxing instantly when she caught sight of Angel.
"You startled me," she squeaked, blushing furiously, obviously embarrassed that she had been caught so off-guard.
"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to scare you," he murmured. Lord knew, that was the truth. Startling her had made her heart rate speed up in a way that was unbearable enticing for him. He could hear the blood pounding through her veins, and smell her mingled excitement and adrenalin at the thought of the upcoming fight. His pants tightened uncomfortably and Angel positioned himself discreetly behind a table so she wouldn't notice. God in heaven, she was so tempting! How was he supposed to stand being around now that he knew first-hand just how deliciously perfect it would be to taste her, take her, have her, right there on the library floor?
Willow started talking, babbling something about tranquilizer darts and strategies for going in to the Bronze, but Angel wasn't listening. Or rather, he wasn't listening to her. Instead, in spite of the best intentions of his wayward soul, his sole attention was focused to the voice of the demon whispering in the back of his head. The demon was telling him that the plans had to be delayed, of course, but they didn't have to vanish completely.
Willow was alive, yes, but she didn't have to stay that way. He had time; time to get her used to the idea of him, time to build up her strength and her confidence, time to lead her down the garden path until he could make her his. This time, there would be no other sire to get in the way. This time, there would be no need to formulate plans in a hurry. This time, there would be nothing to stand in the way of perfection for eternity with the only woman in the world who could truly complete him. He remembered the rage that had filled him back in the cemetery when he smelled other-Willow's blood and realized that she was of the Aurelius line. All he had been able to think of was that she should have been his, all along. Internally, the demon chuckled as he felt the soul begin to grow accustomed to the idea.
Should have been. Still could be.
THE END