by Ashtareth

Angel lay back in his bed, naked, his skin and hair still slightly damp from a hot shower. The heated water had eased his tense muscles, and the rum he'd laced into his liquid meal had brought a temporary warmth to his body. This utter relaxation was a rarity for Angel, not because of the omnipresent guilt that weighed on his shoulders, but because it was when he relaxed, when his vigilance lulled, that the demon inside him swelled and pressed at the confines of his soul.

The demon's memory - his memory - sent him images of the past, of terrible twisted beauty and perverse love, of things that made his gut cringe even as his cock filled. Heat uncoiled in his belly, the demon's desire rolling within him like a cat in heat, sending blood-colored memories up from his heart to his closed eyes. He pushed the thoughts away, resisting temptation, trying to dredge up the disgust he knew a souled creature should be feeling.

He couldn't find it.

There was Drusilla, now, in the darkness behind his eyes, sitting up from her narrow bed, old blood spilled from her slashed throat tracing dark filigree paths down her bared white body, her eyes and mouth wide open and smiling for him. Remembering her cries, he wrapped his fist around his stiffening cock. He'd done unspeakable things to the girl, but her virginity, perversely, he'd saved for this moment when she would give it to him willingly. He'd ravished her as she fed for the first time, on the young nun who'd taken vows beside her.

His soul recoiled from the memories of his dreadful deeds, even as his demon sighed with lust over the memory of his darling Drusilla, in that one perfect moment of joyous surrender. He stroked himself, gripping hard, punishing himself. The pleasure of it made him moan aloud. He squeezed his eyes closed until he saw red sparks, dancing over her remembered face, like the firelight that had gilded the girl's pale face as, bite by loving bite, he'd opened her throat and drained her life away. The memory of her blood filled his mouth, the memory of her virgin cunt still hot with life wrapped around his cock and he howled as his orgasm took him violently and left him shaking, sated and ashamed in his torn sheets.


Disclaimer: Nothing of "Angel" belongs to me. It all belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy and Sandollar and Fox, the lucky bastards. No profit is being made or intended to be made from this flight of fancy. Entertainment purposes only. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

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