Rated: R
Pairing: W/Angelus
Genre: BtVS
Warning: Very dark fic. Involves character death.
Disclaimer: All things BtVS/AtS belong to Joss Whedon, et al. I write this not for profit, but for fun and claim to own nothing.
Distribution: WLS, WLF, NHA, BMP, Aislin.
Author’s Note: Pairing #3 at The Quickie Challenge: http://quickie.moonlitpaths.com
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Silvery hands rained delicate kisses over the sleeping form of a woman, lying quietly in her bed by the balcony window-like doors. The moonlight caressed without a sound, touching without even the slightest breath of substantiality. It sought out the bits of skin that were available to it, around the blanket that was tangled over her small form from hours of dream-filled sleep that had set her to tossing and turning.
She slept on, unaware of the moonlight that touched her; oblivious to everything in the waking world as she dreamed.
~*~
“You’re not who I want to see here.”
“C’mon, Willow. You know I’m the more fun of the two of us. . . You’ve never said no before.”
The red head flinched. This was just a dream, she told herself. Nothing more than a dream.
And it was a dream that had to stop happening.
“I want to see Angel. You are not Angel.” She ground out through clenched teeth, knowing she’d wake with a stiff jaw in the morning.
The dark haired creature across from her shrugged, his silk shirt rustling in the silence of her thoughts.
“That’s splitting hairs, isn’t it? Angel. Angelus. We’re one and the same.”
Willow laughed once, bitterly.
“You are not the same. He is kind and caring and. . . “
“And does absolutely nothing for you, does he, little Red?” The vampire took another step towards her and, despite her brain crying for her to just step back, she found that she stood her ground; a part of her eager for the contact she knew would eventually come.
But that was the problem.
She *was* very eager for his contact. Wanted to feel his hands on her body, his breath in her ear, his tongue on her –
A shudder passed through her before she could stop it, and she saw that recognition in his eyes. He knew she wanted him. She knew it, too. So why did she play this game? This stupid little game of cat and mouse, acting as though she didn’t want to be here with him.
Because she did and she didn’t, all at the same time.
He was evil. Bad. Wrong. And dreams, while nothing more than figments of the imagination, were still an extension of oneself. If she wanted Angelus this badly in her dreams, what would she do to get him in the waking world; a world that could do well without the taint of that demon upon it ever again?
“Why fight me, baby?” He was standing in front of her now, that all-too-familiar smirk on his face. His hands were caressing arms that were quite bare, and she instinctively leaned into the touch.
“This is wrong. You’re bad.” She managed to mutter, overriding the hormones that were chomping at the bit to just jump the sexy vampire standing in front of her.
Angelus laughed, and it sent shivers racing up and down her spine. It was a bad boy’s laugh, the mocking enjoyment a creature of the darkness got from causing pain.
“And you think Soulboy could make you this hot, sweet Willow?” He leaned over, licking a line of wetness along her neck. She arched up into the touch, whimpering despite herself when he pulled away, eyes taunting. “Do you?”
“N-No.” She stammered, cursing her inability to do this every single night. This was just a dream. Why couldn’t she give it up. Especially considering. . .
“He’s too pure for you, Red. Too good of heart for someone like you. Because you’re not a good girl at all, are you?”
She bit her lower lip, tearing her eyes away from his face to stare sullenly at the floor at her feet. He did this every time. And every time she let him.
And why?
Because he was right.
“No. I’m not a good girl.” She murmured. “I’m a bad girl.”
“That’s right.” Angelus cooed, saccharine sweet, in her ear. “You’re a very, very, very bad girl. You like this. . .” He gestured with his hand at the bedroom she had set up in her mind for their adventures that night. “And you like this, too. . .”
A wave of his hand, as though he were controlling her dream, and there was Buffy, bound and gagged on the floor of the room; blue eyes wide with terror as they glanced over Angelus, and then relief when they saw her.
It was a relief that was misplaced, Willow knew that all too well.
“Go on. Show me how bad you are.”
He pushed her towards the blonde, and Willow took a moment to calm herself, to appreciate this gift that had been laid before her as she knew Angelus would want her to do.
It was at that point that she lost touch with her sanity, her morals; her conscience went flying out the window.
And it felt good.
Angelus had first shown her, here, in the privacy of her dreams, the rapture that death brought. She had been taking her frustrations of the day out on a nameless blonde, someone that served as an effigy to the one that brought her pain in real life. It was then that this dream version of Angelus told her that he ‘saw the most potential’ in her than he had ever seen before. He had taken her hand and given her a knife, guiding it through slicing into her first ‘victim’. They had made a mess of that girl’s skin, though he had called it ‘art’. And she supposed she could see the beauty of it. Red on white, splatters and drips. He had shown her the techniques for giving the most pain, the ones that would draw out the agony without actually killing the victim.
She had been disgusted with herself when she woke up that first morning.
Disgusted. . . yet oddly satisfied.
And so she had come back again and again. Eventually the killing led to sex. Sometimes in the blood of the one she had just made a ‘masterpiece’ out of; sometimes on the bed. Other times she would conjure chains out of the insubstantiality of her dreams, and allow herself to be bound while he had his wicked ways with her.
And each morning she woke, and vowed never to do it again.
But every night she was back, and her resolve weakened just a little more.
She stared down at this dream construct of her supposed best friend.
Best friend.
That was a term used lightly.
Angelus was more of a friend than Buffy could ever be. The blonde was too caught up in herself, in Riley, to give a damn what was going on around her; to the extent of ignoring those she supposedly cared about.
Like Willow.
This was the first time her dream effigy had actually ever taken the exact likeness of Buffy, though; and the red head allowed herself a moment to just savor the idea of slicing into that sun-browned flesh.
She knelt beside ‘Buffy’, her hands running lightly over the other woman’s skin. She was clad only in a bra and a thong; and Willow let her hands explore freely this body she would be destroying in moments. She breathed in the heady scent of sweat, knowing that it was borne of fear. And when her eyes caught Buffy’s again she knew that the blonde had realized that there was no saving to be coming from her.
“Its amazing you lasted so long. . . being as stupid as you are.” Willow whispered mockingly into the other woman’s ear. The knife, *her* knife, appeared in her hand with the speed of thought, and she brought it up to rest lightly, sharp side to the skin, on Buffy’s cheek.
Those blue eyes turned pleading now. ‘Please don’t, Willow’. ‘I’m your friend, Willow’. They seemed to say.
But the red head laughed it off, cutting a thin line down the blonde’s cheek. She smiled as blood welled to the surface, dripping thickly down over tanned skin.
“Oh. So sorry. Did that hurt?” Willow taunted. “How ‘bout this?”
She slashed downwards then, cutting a deep line into the Slayer’s thigh. The blonde screamed around the gag in her mouth, the muffled cry music to the ears of those in the room.
“Does it feel good?” Angelus purred, coming up behind Willow to guide her hand in the next series of cuts, stabs and slashes. She melted into his embrace, the rapture of the kill slowly being replaced by the furious rush of her hormones. Tonight would be good.
“Want to . . .” She breathed, the knife clattering to the floor, her toy forgotten for the moment. She threw her arms around his neck, her mouth seeking his. He tasted like coldness and copper. The Slayer’s blood was in his mouth, he had tasted her as they cut.
It only turned her on more.
“Aren’t you going to finish. . .?” He prompted, pulling back from her mouth, his eyes gone amber with desire.
“Later. Let her watch.” She answered, sneering down at the still conscious blonde. “I want you to fuck me right here, against that wall, in front of her. Let seeing us be the last thing she ever sees.”
He didn’t have to be asked twice.
Willow felt herself being turned and pushed against the wall, the pain from the impact dulling under the caresses he lavished upon her skin. Squeezing and fondling her through the thin silk nightie she had arrived in. She moaned, looking over his shoulder to meet the eyes of the woman on the floor.
Yes, tonight was going to be very, very good.
~*~
Willow looked up, forcing a smile to her face as she saw the person that was standing at her table, tray in hand.
“Hey, Wills.”
“Buffy.” The red head nodded, feigning happiness at the sight of her ‘friend’. “Where’s Riley?”
“Fraternity stuff.” She shrugged. “Didn’t have time to eat with me this morning. But that gives me time to spend with you. Aren’t we the lucky one today?”
Did she realize how she sounded? So conceited, as though gracing someone with her presence was a prize to be treasured above all else.
Well, it wasn’t. Not to Willow, anyway. Not anymore. She conjured up the images of her dream the night before, letting that guide her smile.
“You know.” Buffy began, her forehead wrinkled in thought. “I had the weirdest dream last night. More of a nightmare, actually.”
It was all Willow could do not to drop her fork. She held it steady instead, meeting Buffy’s eyes, remembering them wide with fear in her dream.
“Really? What about?”
The blonde sighed.
“It was silly really. You were there. And Angelus. And. . . the two of you tortured me . . . and then he had sex with you in front of me . . . and then, well, you killed me.” She shivered, obviously disturbed.
Willow laughed as though it was the silliest thing she had ever heard, inwardly cowering under the implications of what that meant.
If Buffy had been there last night, had experienced that dream world right along with her. . .
Then what did that mean about Angel?
A wicked glimmer of hope sparked up in a heart long gone cold. . .
Or, should she say –
What did that mean about Angelus?
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