Just ignore this.
Unless you feel like reading. Then, by all means, do so.
Angel ~ The Art Of Passion
Another Not For Profit Venture by Snow
I do not own this character, but I would not mind letting him hold my leash.
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Angel considered foreplay an art. In very much the same way Angelus had relished torture. Perhaps it had replaced his signature. Instead of leaving trails of cold, stiffened, viscously mutilated and blood drained bodies, now he left weakened, sweaty, exhausted, emotionally drained bodies. Instead of spending hours and days perfecting the many ways he could bring a human to the very point of death, he spent that same amount of time learning just how very many ways he could create the perfect moment of passion over and over for another person.
And since his little mistake with Buffy, he’d learned how to keep that singular moment away from himself. How to distance himself from his own orgasm. From his own happiness.
He was never in a hurry. After all, he had lived long enough to appreciate time for what it was; fleeting, temporary and inevitable. The only instance that he let it intrude was when he took someone outside. Then the vampire in him never let him play with the dawn. But when he was inside? In a secure environment? It was uncommon that he let it last less than twenty-four hours.
Men. Women. It had never mattered to him. Chemistry. Physical attractions. Pheromones. That was it. A casual glance. A meaningful touch. A heated conversation. Preludes to passion. Overtures to orgasms. Introductions to intensity.
He always started the seduction before he was even alone with his victim. He would let them know his intentions before they even knew that they were interested. A subtle crowding of personal space. A drawing out with questions. Holding a stare just too long. And he knew he could feel the temperature change around him, around them. The promise of desire.
When the time came that they were alone, he would stalk his willing prey. Sometimes talking, bantering, arguing. Letting them think he was distracted as he moved, circling. Feeling his own muscles tighten, his step would become lighter, his senses heightening.
Then he would be there. Right there in front of them. Taking the moment. Taking whatever feeble grasp of control they might’ve thought they’d had on the situation. A kiss. Gentle. Caress. So light that they strained to feel it. Using only the very tips of his fingers. The jaw line, the cheekbones. Soft as silk or the rasp of stubble. Rare that anyone of them was ever his height, he learned to bend down without overwhelming. Listen to the rapid beat of their hearts, little rabbits in a fox’s den.
Slow. Kind. Let them know that they were safe. Fear did not do it for him anymore. Terror did not turn him on. He wanted his lovers to welcome him. Invite him. The begging always came later.
Angel loved the act of undressing. The baring of skin, the most private of parts. Unless they objected, he took this action, made it his. The feel of different fabrics in his hands. The buttons, the zippers, the tiny hooks found on fancy silk dresses. The very many ways people had found to keep themselves hidden behind fashion.
He never turned off the light. Though he could still see in the dark, he wanted his guest to see him see them. To watch the desire they created in him. To understand he wanted them.
Naked now, perfume and cologne and heat rising off the flesh. The hairs on the backs of their necks standing at attention. The thump, thump, thump of the blood rushing through them. Kisses again. More insistent this time. Not as gentle. His tongue intruding into their mouth, feeling their teeth. Breathing in their exhaled gasps. Then pulling them into his embrace. Cold skin against hot. Bumping cocks, grinding pelvises, scraping chests, pressing breasts. Letting the touches be returned. Feeling their callused/soft/ tiny/strong hands run over his shoulders, down his rounded arms, bring him closer.
Leaving bruised, reddened lips behind he would move on to earlobes and temples. His mouth warm now from the panting breaths he’d stolen. His kisses more like licks on closed eyelids and foreheads. Then the moment of trust when he’d venture to the neck, the collarbone. Always feeling the second of panic, tightened fingers on his biceps, a tripping of the heartbeat when he put his mouth against the artery. Skin suddenly slick with sweat, breath held in. He did not linger there, just took a taste.
It was a test.
This is the moment they could choose. Sleep with the vampire. Know what I am. What I could do. What the demon in me cries out for. Take the pleasure I am offering you. Trust in my control. Trust me.
He would take a step back, look into open eyes.
What his lover’s would see when they stared back was Angel’s calm, patient brown eyes. His face expressionless, open. And they would know that they could take that choice, move away, get dressed, go back to whatever life they came from and nothing would change between them. He would not hold a grudge, would never mention this again. They could return to casual friendship and this would never be an issue.
But it would never be offered again.
When they stayed, they would see his lips curve into that familiar, yet not seen enough smile and he would take them to the nearest bed, couch, thickly carpeted floor. Lay them down. Stand over them with his cock jutting out in front of him. His skin so white, so pale he could be a marble statue.
There was no turning back now. No stopping for a phone call, no interruptions at the door. Short of fire or attack this was where you were. And Angel was in charge.
He would get down beside them, let them touch him, but not distract him.
Angel always made the men come twice, the women three times before he took them. He would start with his hands, exploring. Finding the surprising ticklish spots, so he would know to avoid them later, finding the wildly different erogenous places so he’d know where to concentrate. A light caress behind the knee of a woman, the inner thigh of a man. Under the arm, the back of the neck. And nearly always the nipples. Too much attention cannot be given to biting and licking here. The flush of the chest, the blood being called to the surface. The soft moans, lips bitten until he could smell blood above him.
Moving down. To cocks and balls, clitoris and vagina. The musky, salty, burning heat there. Sometimes letting their hands guide him, sometimes holding their wrists down. He would suck and tongue and tease. Scrape his teeth on sensitive parts. Bury his face in the warmth. Listen as they cried his name, thrashing above him. And just keep going. Taking them beyond where they’d ever been before, making the passion rise again and again. Incoherent words, blasphemous curses, crying.
Occasionally he played. Held them down, tying arms and legs with silken scarves to iron bedposts. Using tools developed in darker times by humans proclaiming religious superiority over each other and now were toys designed to bring the sharp clarity of pain to the chaos of pleasure.
Teasing them. Bringing them up to the crest of a wave only to back off, take his ministrations elsewhere on their body. Ignoring the tears, the pleads, the clutching hands. The scratch of fingernails drawing his own blood. Then just when they were sure he would never let the release come, giving in.
When they thought they were spent, when they lay satiated and soaked in their own juices, then Angel would indulge him self. Pushing his throbbing, aching cock into tight, fiery, wet places, using his finger and hands to bring them to completion again, just so he could feel it from the inside.
Licking up the sweat that pooled in the small of their back when he took them from behind. Gripping their hips, leaving bruises that would be there for weeks. Smashing them back into the bed or floor and holding their faces in his hands, making them look in his eyes as he came in hard, shuddering thrusts on top of them. Filling them with his semen, kissing them when he was done, to silence their quiet whispers of love and life and devotion and promises.
Reveling in the body heat he’d stolen from them, his skin temperature almost normal. Almost human.
Then finally letting them drop into a deep, exhausted sleep. Angel would pull them close, his cock still hard against them, his arms thrown possessively around them. His face as smooth, as expressionless as ever.
He would close his eyes and listen to the beat of their heart. The breath in their lungs. And dream of when he was human.
They met at the hotel again, each arriving alone, each leaving alone when they were finished. There was never any conversation, no inquiries into the other’s lives. Angel never asked Buffy how her search for potential slayers was going. Spike never asked her where Dawn was studying or if she ever used his name. Buffy never asked them about Wolfram and Hart or about the gossip she had heard about the various cases, the whispered rumors that Cordelia had woken before she had died. Perhaps if they met on the street, or in a bar or while dining at a restaurant it would be different. There would be concern and compassion. There would be interest and empathy.
They met here once a month for one thing only, to feed their addictions for each other. Who had proposed this strange arrangement? Did it matter? They fed off the hurt that they had caused each other so many times. They fed off the love that bound them together. The aching, mind bending, burning desire. The sex was different every month. On occasion, it was tender, but generally hard, punishing, violent, and always inventive. It left them all bruised and battered afterwards.
Not just physically.
When Buffy had found out that Spike was alive, she had come to him, but by then he and Angel had renewed their age-old relationship. Suddenly she was a guest in their lives, a guest in their beds. At these clandestine meetings, Spike and Angel never touched each other in her presence, whether they chose to refrain or it was an unconscious act. She knew from the way they would finish each other’s short sentences and the way the heat would burn her when she stood between them that they were the couple in the room.
She was the interloper.
When Buffy entered the dim room, the curtains drawn although it was the dark of night, she saw that Spike and Angel had already arrived. They sat in chairs on either side of the small fake wood table, both of them facing the television, pretending to watch. A small collection of beer bottles was scattered between them, Angel’s expensive Irish Whiskey bottle, already half empty. Smoke from Spike’s cigarettes drifted about the ceiling.
She closed the door behind her, locking it out of habit, although there was no need. Angel always rented the entire floor. There would be no neighbors, no maids, and no interruptions. No escape.
She marveled in the change that the last decade had brought to her first love. Not physical. Never that. But she could see time echoing in his eyes. His connections to humanity had aged him, vampire or not. His sad brooding had turned to a dark anger at all that he had so recently lost. She had thought him complex and intriguing, devastatingly attractive, when she had first met him so long ago in Sunnydale, but now he was different.
Harder. Warmer. More sarcastic. Less self deprecating.
Then there was Spike. She could still see the swoon in his blue eyes whenever he looked at her, feel the pull between them, but she could also see it when he looked at Angel. He seemed more content now than he had, with her, in Sunnydale, where he was always searching for something, always needy. She considered that perhaps joining with Angel, of being an integral part of Angel’s mission had given him the purpose and direction that she had not.
Angel watched her walk into the room, her soft pink summer dress clinging to her curves. She tossed her tiny jeweled purse onto the seat of the chair by the door and looked back at them, her hands resting on her slim hips.
Spike watched as Angel rose and crossed the room to Buffy. He was always surprised at his uncharacteristic lack of jealousy at letting Angel take charge, take control. At letting, without argument, Angel be the dominant, possessive one in the room. Spike needed this side of Angel. This was the Angel that Spike deliberately provoked.
Angel stood in front of Buffy. She had to point her chin almost straight up to see into his dark, half-open eyes. He leaned down and she parted her lips, expectant. But he bypassed her face, touching his cool lips momentarily to her neck, his fingers at the hem of her dress, pulling it up, over her head. She felt the reopening of an old emotional wound, a teenager’s angst and pain. She pushed the drama inside her away. Angel did not kiss her anymore, something she had noted, but would never remark upon, from the first time the three had met this way. She tried not to remember the days when kissing was all she and Angel had. The time when just that intimate, sacred act was enough, because it had to be.
Angel stepped back, his lips curving up slightly as she ran her fingers through her hair. Now wearing only a soft pink satin bra with tiny matching panties, garter and stockings, she looked like a dream.
Spike had moved to the bed, stripping his shirt off on the way. He leaned back against the headboard.
“Come here, pet.”
Buffy stood completely still, just staring at Spike lounging there, until Angel moved behind her and gently pushed her forward. She crawled up the bed to Spike on her hands and knees and he gathered her silky blonde hair up, held it in his hands and pulled her head up to his. Angel unhooked her bra and ran his hands down her sides, catching the garter, panties and stockings, pulling them down to her feet and off onto the floor. Spike kissed her roughly, sucking at her lips. He took one of her breasts in a free hand and pinched the nipple between his fingers. Still holding her hair, he moved her head down, forcing her to back up. Buffy ran her tongue along his abdomen as she moved, tasting smoke and sweat and Spike. She unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans. She freed his cock, long and swollen and hard. She planted little hot wet kisses all around it, taunted him with the warmth of her mouth. She gently rolled his balls in her fingers, cupped them, breathed on them.
Angel stood at the foot of the bed. He lifted Buffy’s hips, admired the smooth round, firmness of her ass and stroked the kitten soft skin on the backs of her thighs with the palms of his hands. Then he pushed her knees so far apart that she strained to stay balanced on them; she held determinedly onto Spike’s waist. Angel rolled his fingers in her center, found moisture and heat, moved them in and out of her. First one, then two, stretching her with three. He opened his pants and coated himself with her scent, bringing it up to his mouth for a taste. She leaned back toward his touch, but he just kept teasing her, making her quiver. Angel saw Spike’s eyes close and could tell from the tilt of the back of Buffy’s head that she finally had Spike in her mouth. Then he knelt on the bed behind her and slowly pushed his own cock into her. He felt her tense around him, tight and hot and perfect.
Buffy briefly, somewhat incoherently, entertained the thought that Angel was trying to force his way through her to Spike, his stokes were so long and deep. She knew that if she could see him, his dark stare would be locked on Spike’s angular face. Angel held her still, his grip on her hips tight enough that he would leave fingerprints that she would see tomorrow, all so that she could not move away from his drawn out, methodical thrusts. Spike kept his hands in her hair, holding her head and she heard his sharp intake of breath as he reached the edge. Buffy pulled on him with her mouth, letting her teeth scrape him, swirling her tongue. She felt his abdominal muscles tighten under her fingers. He came with low, gruff moans and she swallowed him down, still sucking even after he had finished. Angel pulled her up, away from Spike so her back was against his chest. She sat on his thighs and he held her down, still deep inside her, motionless.
Impaled on Angel’s lap, held in place by his marble muscles, as if she would try to get away from him, she watched Spike reach over to the table and grab his beer. He took a long drink, then held the bottle up to her lips, giving her the last of the still cool liquid. Spike kissed her, running his tongue around the inside of her mouth, then sat back as Angel started moving again. He filled one hand with a breast and slid the other down her belly, between her legs, finding her swollen clit, moving his fingers against it relentlessly. Buffy closed her eyes, leaning back into him, letting the sweeping orgasm take her, shake her.
When he was done, Angel let her fall forward. She rolled onto her back and immediately looked at him, another habit she could not break. His face was expressionless, his eyes dark. Spike moved on top of her, filled her view, blonde, sinewy, graceful, sliding into her. He kept his mouth on hers as she enveloped him, lifted her hips to meet him, moaned and panted and tried to breath around his constant kisses, his darting tongue. Before she could catch another wave, Spike abruptly pulled away from her, getting off the bed.
Buffy lay there, still wanting, still aching.
Angel took his tie from the suit jacket and shirt that he had thrown over the back of his chair at the table earlier. He pulled her onto her knees and covered her eyes with it, knotting the ends behind her head.
“Clean it off.”
She heard Spike’s low laugh at Angel’s direction as she knelt on the rumpled bedding and then she heard the sound of bottles and glasses moved. She felt Angel’s cool, large hands lift her off the bed and lay her down on the table. Her back and bottom naked against the hard surface, she shivered. There was the sharp rasp of Spike’s lighter and the sweet, unmistakable odor of marijuana.
Spike kissed her roughly, surprising her. Before she could object, he blew smoke into her lungs. She coughed, but did not push him away when he came back with another hit for her and then another.
Angel went to the small refrigerator, sorting through the assorted stock of tiny liquor bottles and brought them to the table. He opened one, drank half, then poured some over one of Buffy’s breasts. She gasped at the sudden cold and arched her back up to meet him when he nibbled and licked at her nipple, then chased the liquid down her trembling belly.
Spike kissed her again, giving her the last of the smoke. She felt the drug start to work, her arms and legs became heavy and the room seemed warmer.
He and Angel drank all of the alcohol either from the little bottles or from Buffy’s breasts and belly. Their voices grew louder as they became drunker. She tried to concentrate on their words, but all she could think about was the aching heat between her legs. She lived for the cold trickle that would come from the right or the left, then the cool mouth that would suck and bite and lick. She held tightly onto the table with her hands and her knees dangled off the edge.
Spike lit another joint and smoked it slowly, randomly giving Buffy smoke-filled kisses. She was sure that she was floating near the ceiling when she heard Angel whisper next to her ear. His low voice was touched with the soft Gaelic lilt that only appeared when he was very drunk or very pissed off.
“Now we’re going to play a game.”
She felt his hands on her knees. Angel pushed them apart, then the touch of cold glass against the sensitive skin of her inner and outer thighs.
“I’m putting these empty bottles here and then I am going to touch you here.”
A moan escaped her when she felt the touch of his hand between her legs. On her hot, wet, wanting center.
“But if you knock down any of the bottles, I’ll have to stop.”
She felt pressure as his long fingers moved in her. The glass between her legs was tinkling as she twitched, trying to arch up, to have more of him inside of her.
Angel started slowly and Buffy, after waiting for so long, was unable to be motionless. She heard a soft clink as something fell over. Angel took his hands away and Buffy groaned.
Buffy could feel the bottles being set back up beside her legs and Spike’s rougher touch open her. She took a deep breath and clenched her thigh muscles, determined. She caught her bottom lip with her teeth, biting down on it as Spike’s fingers filled her, coaxed moans from her. She cried out when she felt Angel’s mouth on her breast. He pulled at her nipple, licked, sucked, and immediately let go when the bottles fell again.
Buffy begged with wordless sounds as Spike took his hands off her. They traded again, Angel’s fingers inside her and Spike’s cool lips on her breasts. Buffy lost track of how many times the bottles fell and how many times they stopped. The room spun around her in the dark and her brain swirled with the drugs, the heat, and the aching need. She could not tell anymore which of her lovers was where and who was touching her.
“Please, please,” she cried as the denial of her orgasm burned.
Buffy heard Angel’s soft laugh as he took her off the table. He pulled off the blindfold and Buffy fell into his arms, kissing his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, her legs wrapped around him, not for a moment caring that she was grinding herself wantonly against him. Angel carried her to where Spike stood against the wall. He held her up in between them, her back to Spike.
Buffy was desperate to find a rhythm or friction against Angel. He held her just above his waist as she rubbed on him, her face buried in his neck. Her fingernails ripped into his arms and blood ran down, dripping off his elbows as Spike pulled her closer and pushed into her pulsing center. He kept his movements slow and deliberate even though she was so close, she felt like fire inside. Spike caught some of the blood from Angel’s torn skin on his fingers and mixed it with the precome that dripped from him and Buffy’s wet heat that coated him. Then, as gently as he could, gradually entered her tight bottom. He supported her, his hands under her thighs, as Angel rammed his cock into her from the front. They rocked her between them, her mouth open, tears running down her face as she wept for release. Then finally she was coming and coming. Screaming with the soaring, overwhelming intensity they had given her.
Angel leaned over Buffy’s shoulder, caught Spike’s mouth with his. They kissed. Their lips hard and needing, chins scraping and teeth biting, all the while the girl between them convulsed in ecstasy. The two vampire’s eyes changed to matching yellow, neither one willing to let go of the other’s gaze as they each filled her at the same time. Their muscles shuddering with spent tension and drained passion. They stood, leaning against and into each other, fused together with sweat and come.
Angel and Spike let Buffy slide down to her feet slowly, all of them suddenly conscious of the separation, the emptiness and the chill. Buffy pretended not to notice the blood stain that reddened their lips as they stared over her, at each other. Just as she had pretended not to see and feel the passion of the kiss they shared while they had pounded into her, felt each other in her and through her. Silent, they gathered up their clothes. Wincing as getting dressed moved torn and bruised body parts that would instantly remind them of each other, until they healed. The room smelled of sex and smoke, stale beer and whiskey.
Buffy decided, just as she had at this moment every time, she was never doing this again. She would go back to England and stay there. Tour Europe. Go back to school. Find a normal boyfriend. Get a life. It hurt too much to see Angel kiss Spike as she yearned to be kissed by him. It hurt too much to see Spike’s eyes follow Angel’s every move as they used to follow hers. This was not healthy. This was not right.
Spike caught her hand as she grabbed her purse off the chair and reached for the doorknob.
“See you next month pet?”
She pushed him out of the way and left quickly, not looking back.
Spike leaned against the open door’s frame and lit a cigarette.
“Why does she say that every damn time?”
Angel adjusted his tie and arched an eyebrow at his child’s question as he walked toward him.
“She’ll be here. We’ll all be here.”
To this day he didn’t know why he hadn’t killed her. Why he hadn’t drank her blood, slaughtered her like he had so many others.
It had to have been a very special set of circumstances that had saved her life.
That had saved her from him.
Angel remembered; something that he made himself do once every day, something his friend’s semi-jokingly referred to as Angel’s Brooding Time. He sat in the dark, forcing himself to do nothing but contemplate and revisit his past. Reliving the anguish and terror that he had dispensed like candy to everyone, the innocent and guilty alike. Anyone unfortunate to have crossed his path.
It would have been so easy to let it all go.
Definitely not at first, not when he’d just been cursed. Then the sorrow and pain ran deep; constantly seeing and feeling the shock of death overtake his hundreds of victims over and over. Probably not in the hundred years after, when even the thought of taking a human life could make him weep. But now? Now, when he was so used to the endless ache of this soul that it had truly become a part of him.
And like anything, familiarity had bred resignation.
So he made sure that once a day, every day, he remembered the people that he had taken from this world. But whenever he got in too deep, whenever he felt himself sink to some new level of despair, she would come to him. Peeking out of the depths of his black memories like a candle, wandering into his desolation.
Reminding him that even in the intensity of his evil, he hadn’t killed her.
He hadn’t killed her.
* * *
It was the summer of 1850, he’d been with Darla for ninety-seven years.
Darla; his blonde goddess, his sire, his lover. She’d left him alone to take a shopping trip to Paris. Normally he would’ve been with her, but she’d grown tired of him killing her favorite designers. Angelus just couldn’t seem to leave Paris without literally drinking in the newest and most creative in the city.
He was roaming the French countryside when he’d found the convent.
Angel still couldn’t explain his consistent attraction to such places.
Convents, monasteries, churches, again and again he’d found himself drawn to them. Normally he’d already have been in the place, wreaking havoc with the nuns, but he’d surprised a hunting party just after he’d risen that evening and had fed exceptionally well on the rich, slightly wine filled blood of the men. Now his cheeks had color, his skin was warm to the touch, his ever present rage was satiated, for the moment.
He sat in the dark, just over the stone wall that surrounded the convent and listened. The evening vespers had finished, the nuns were retreating to their cells. Angelus could hear them moving through the building. There were no real voices, other than the whispered prayers that floated out to him on the warm breeze. He closed his eyes, imagining them taking off their heavy wimples, scratchy wool dresses. Kneeling on the always cold stone floors, the skin there rough and calloused, as they prayed, prayed, prayed.
To what, he wondered. To a God that wouldn’t stop him from entering the house of His brides, from playing his psychotic, deadly games with them? To a God that had risen, not unlike Angelus himself, but instead of staying among His children, had left them to their own devices, to their own demons? It always confused him. He couldn’t understand such devotion to any deity that left his followers to live such short brutal lives, to die such terrible, painful deaths.
Suddenly the wind brought him the sharp tang of blood, totally capturing his attention. He stood and quickly, silently, followed the scent. Jumping with ease to the second story ledge, he crept along the wall to an open window. A single candle lit the room, casting a shaky yellow glow on it’s sparse accruements. A brown, woolen blanket laying over a neat bed of hay, a single stool sitting in front of a small table. A large, crudely carved cross that hung above the door. On the stone floor, in the middle of the room, knelt a naked woman. She sat with her back to the window, her eyes on the cross. She held a small whip in one hand and Angelus found the source of the smell, as she repeatedly flung the whip over her shoulders, striking herself. Leaving angry red welts, cuts, blood dripping down to the floor. Angelus could hear her whispers, but could not understand them, as the pain choked her into constant quiet gasps.
Angelus admired her control. He’d seen strong men in their prime cry out, scream with less than half the pain she was administering to herself. He balanced effortlessly on the ledge, just out of the small candle’s light, his curiosity peaked. Finally finished with the self-flagellation, she stood, her legs shaking, her head bowed. When she turned, Angelus’ audible hiss almost gave his presence away.
She was beautiful.
Her long, chestnut colored hair hung in tangled and matted curls to the small of her back. Her breasts were full, ripe, perfectly shaped above her tiny waist and round hips. Her skin was as pale and white as his, almost glowing. Her legs were long, she was tall. Angelus knew that he’d only have to bend his neck to kiss her. If he was standing in front of her. If he was to kiss her. But it was her face that caught him. Her blue eyes shimmered with spilling tears, her mouth was a perfect rosebud under her small, upturned nose. Her cheekbones sharp and defined.
He watched as she dropped a rag into a large bowl, and as well as she could, washed the blood off of her back, wincing with each rub. Then she pulled her draping bed shirt on and knelt once more before the cross.
“Please Mary, Mother of God. No dreams tonight. Please.”
Angelus heard the pain in her voice and was intrigued.
What would a nun dream?
He moved closer to her windowsill as she blew out the candle and curled up on her small bed. The moon was full, but even without it he would’ve been able to see her. Then he waited, a shadow along the wall. Angelus’ patience was interminable when he was interested, finite when he was not.
The girl tossed and turned, then dropped into a deep, exhausted sleep. Angelus slipped silently into her room. There never was an entry barrier at these places, as they were all open to give solace and respite to anyone; travelers and the poor, the injured and the sick.
And the demons.
He crouched next to her, close enough to feel her soft breaths, close enough to have to restrain his impulse to feed. He was not hungry, so it wasn’t too hard. Still, the beat of her heart clouded his vision, the sound of her blood rushing through her veins filled his senses. The very warmth rising from her body made his cock hard in his pants. The dark brown of his eyes flickered yellow.
A quiet moan escaped from her, her long eyelashes fluttering as her eyes rolled behind them. Angelus watched as her hands moved under the blanket. Using two fingers, he pulled it back, knowing the night was warm enough that there would be no chill to wake her. Her nightshirt strained at the buttons as her hands roamed, pulling it apart.
Angelus smiled at the sight of her breasts, amused at the actions of her long fingers. They pulled and twisted at the nipples, her breath coming faster, as she handled herself like a man would. Pinching the tips, squeezing and lifting. He watched as her hands moved down, her legs already laying apart, the smell of her sex curling up to him.
She teased herself, her dream hands moving quickly, harshly. Touching, then leaving, parting herself to the night air as her hips thrust up against nothing. He saw her fingers, wet with her own juices, stroking her clit. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth, almost breaking the skin as her orgasm finally came. Angelus felt her waken as the strength of it rolled over her and moved back into a shadow. He watched her eyes open as her breath slowed and hitched on a sob.
“Oh My God. Why, why?”
He heard her begging whisper as she began to cry.
Angelus waited until her sleep came again, fitful and ragged this time. Then he crept back out, into the waning night.
As he searched for a shelter from the coming dawn, he caught a beggar in the street. Drinking the hot blood, one arm holding the dying man’s throat up to his mouth, the other down, his hand wrapped on his hard, straining cock, bringing himself to a quick, unsatisfying release. His mind wrapped around the nun, the woman.
Wanting her. Needing her.
Angelus rose early, before twilight had darkened into night. The sky was still the color of amethysts as he left the barn, brushing hay out of his shoulder-length brown hair, off his clothes.
Vampires don’t dream, but some do think a lot in the time before they rise. And Angelus had found himself thinking of nothing but the nun since he’d wakened. He thanked the farmer for the use of his building by killing his family, feeding until he couldn’t anymore. Quenching his blood-lust quickly, he didn’t play with them. He wanted to find the woman again.
He went inside the convent this time, watching the nuns from the shadows. This was a small order, he counted only twenty nuns, five novices and the Mother Superior. Angelus found the woman among the novices, smiling to himself. Of course she wouldn’t be accepted yet, not with those dreams. He had come in as they were finishing their sparse evening meal. He watched as they quickly, efficiently cleared the tables when they were finished. He followed them to the chapel, avoiding the cistern of holy water, standing in the back. The Priest from the town’s church led them in a service that was so officious, so offensive to Angelus he quickly decided that whatever else he might do, he was going to kill that man before he moved on.
He ghosted behind his novice as she moved through the convent. Watching as she finished her chores for the evening. Angelus had always treasured this part of his demon; being able to follow a person without their knowledge. Over the years he’d perfected it to an art, so that he could even shadow Darla. Although when she would catch him, her anger was indescribable. Nothing was quite such a challenge as churches, convents and monasteries though. The natural hush, the quietness of the inhabitants made it especially hard. Of course, Angelus had no real fear of being caught. After all, he’d just kill them.
So he danced behind her white robes, slipping into a corner when she turned, always trying to catch the sight of her eyes. The color of them amazed him, if he’d thought they were blue in the candle light of the previous night, then he realized that he’d never really seen blue. They sparkled; dark, glittering jewels set in her pale, perfect skin. Angelus felt a small ache when she closed them to pray, he felt that he could fall in love with her eyes alone.
Finally she went up the stone steps to the second floor and to her room. Angelus slipped through another and out onto the ledge once again. He silently found his vantage point from the previous evening. This night the cloud cover was heavy. The moon and stars completely obscured, as if God Himself was in league with Angelus, letting him watch the woman without any chance of being seen from below.
She stripped quickly, shedding her novice garments, pulled her small whip out from underneath her bed of hay. She knelt in the center of her room again, moving her hair to the side so she wouldn’t even have that little bit of protection against the pain. Angelus could see the scars of so many previous evenings covering her. She began her whispered prayers, the soft crack of leather against skin, the first sharp gasps, the tears that sprang instantly to her eyes, ran down her cheeks.
Angelus felt his lust for her growing.
He wanted to stop the whipping.
He wanted to do it himself.
He wanted to turn her.
He wanted to kill her.
He wanted her.
His hands were tightly clenched, his teeth bared, his erection straining against his breeches. His human façade crumbling when she finally finished. The strong smell of her blood teased him unmercifully.
As before, she washed her back, slipped on her night shirt, blew out the candle, uttered another short prayer and lay down on her bed.
Angelus could barely control himself, waiting for her dreams to start again. A soft moan and he was in the room, moving with preternatural speed. His eyes shining in the dark. Her blanket fell away from her as she moved, her night shirt pulled open, her fingers on her breasts. He knelt over her. He could feel the breath from her touch his cold skin, the smell of her touch his brain. He watched her hands work her breasts roughly and just as she pinched and twisted a nipple, he took it in his fingers, matching her movements. Her mouth puckered into a perfect O. A sharp inhale and she arched her chest up to him.
Angelus had been ready to restrain her if she woke, ready to rape her if she resisted, but she accepted him into her dream as if she’d been waiting for him, for his touch. Her hands left off touching her own body and grasped onto his arms, his shoulders, kneading the muscles she found there. Angelus leaned down, taking one of her sore nipples into his mouth, never stopping his torture of the other. Her skin smelled of honey and clovers, summertime flavors. He felt her hands tugging ineffectually at the laces on his breeches. He sat back and untied his pants, freed his throbbing cock. Angelus moved her legs up so that the back of her thighs rested on the front of his, her pink center spread wide before him.
It had been so long since he’d been this close to a still living human, he was drunk with the heat that was radiating off of her, the salty taste of her sweat on his tongue. Her hands fell back, grasping at the fallen blanket, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Angelus leaned forward, nuzzling her neck, letting the fast beat of her heart hypnotize him while the tip of his cock just grazed her wet, quivering opening. She pushed against him, small pleading noises escaping from her.
He tormented her breasts with his mouth, switching from one to the other. Then he moved down, watching her skin tremble at his kisses, drowning in the musk that emanated from her. At the touch of his tongue on her clit, she gasped and brought her own hand to her mouth, covering it as if she could stop herself from screaming. He licked and bit and teased, putting his fingers into her, curving them up, stroking her inside.
Angelus worked her body into a frenzy, listening to it, not letting her release come. Taking her continually to the edge, but not letting her over. When she was at the point that one more lick, one more touch would push her, he put his hands under her shoulders and brought her up. He lifted her at the waist, positioning her over him.
Then in one swift motion he impaled himself in her. In her wet, incredibly hot, unbelievably tight virginal body. His mouth sealed over hers at the instant his cock broke her hymen and her orgasm rolled through her. She cried out into him, the sharp sudden pain and overwhelming pleasure rolling through her. He sucked at her tongue, not letting her pull back. Holding her down on him, completely buried, mesmerized by the clenching spasms, the blood.
Angelus was brought out of his short daze by the touch of her hands on his cheeks. He released her mouth and using his grip on her waist, he started moving her. Lifting her up, bringing her down on him, thrusting deep into her again and again. He felt her touch on his brow, in his hair, on the line of his jaw. Then as the tension started again, her hands moved to his shoulders and her head fell back. She held tightly onto him, her only life line in the swirling abyss that surrounded her.
Angelus found the skin that was like silk under one of her breasts and as she convulsed on him, he let his demon out and bit into her. Drinking the sweet blood, finally letting himself explode, shuddering with her.
He let her lay back on the bed, his mouth moving over her, lapping up the fluids that ran from her. Their combined essence, her blood. He turned her on her side, tracing the scars, the cuts, the welts. She rolled weakly back, hovering above unconsciousness, reaching up to touch his face. He saw her face in the dark, her eyes open, looking back at him, her expression was full of wonder and trust.
Her whisper slipped through his fog, into his brain. He let go of the demon and leaned down, kissing her, tasting her once more as she fell into the black.
* * *
Angel remembered that he had stood, adjusted his clothing, his body automatically noticing the oncoming dawn. He remembered that he had leaned down just once before leaving her room, listened intently to the strong, slow beat of her heart, felt her soft breath on his cheek once more. Then Angelus was gone, out into the quickly departing night.
He struggled to remember if he had ever seen her again, outside of his memories. It seemed that he had, just once, briefly, years later. Traveling with Darla in Africa, going through a missionary camp. The quick glimpse of a nun, the black habit turning to look at him as they had ridden through at evening. Angelus looking out the coach’s window. The glitter of recognition shining from the dark blue jewels in her pale, beautiful face, watching him.