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"Innocence Anew"

"I woo'd thee with my sword,
And won thy love, doing thee injuries;
But I will wed thee in another key..."
--"A Midsummer Night's Dream" by William Shakespeare



Christmas Morning 2010
Edenscroft Manor in Devonshire, England
Sometime after Midnight...

Making love to Angel is incredible.  In every way.  When he’s gentle, slow, and worshipful, my body melts for him.  If he’s harsh, even cruel or brutal when he handles me I explode like a volcano all around him.

Tonight is no different.  A night hasn’t gone by in two full years where he hasn’t touched me, tasted me, made me scream and weep from pleasure.  It’s our wedding night and I almost didn’t expect the same excitement we’d always felt before.  After all, we’re married now.  Truly domesticated.  Doesn’t that mean we’re not supposed to want to do it anymore?  Don’t I automatically turn into a little old lady knitting socks for him while Angel reads the sports pages?

He helps me with my clothes a little, unzips my gown, unpins my veil.  The satin dress with all it’s little underskirts falls away from my body easily, waves of gleaming satin and ruffled tulle and soft illusion crashing into the plush carpet of our bedroom.  The ridiculously expensive designer veil is tossed upon my vanity bench and Angel stands back, arms folded across his powerful chest, watching me intently, waiting for me to undress for him.

Angel scares me when he’s like this.  I don’t understand why I never recognised how much he and Angelus, his evil un-souled self, are essentially alike.  Angel used to watch me and spy on me before we met.  Angelus lurked and stalked and watched me all the time.  I wonder now why I thought Angel was beyond the things he's done to me in the last two years.  He's a man of the eighteenth century, forceful and dominant to his woman.  Not cruel, not hateful--it'd be easier for me if he was, then I'd have a reason to hate him.  How do you hate a man who wants to do for you what Angel wants to do for me?  Keep me, pamper me, love me always.  Whether I want it or not.  And I do want it, I can't help myself.

I remember the Halloween before my seventeenth birthday, when I got that fabulous magic costume that transformed me into an eighteenth century ninnified lady.  I'd wanted it so much--the wide bell-shaped skirt and low ruffled neckline, the high pompadour wig with pretty ringlets hanging over one shoulder.  I'd wanted to look more like a lady from Angel's time.  I'd thought that would impress my boyfriend.

Angel had laughed at me and called me silly.  He said the girls from his time were boring, he'd always wanted to meet someone interesting.  Like me.

But I know now that I misunderstood Angel.  I don't think he lied to me at all.  I think the women of his living era probably did bore him, and maybe he did want to meet someone more interesting, but he definitely wanted to marry a woman from his living era.  A dainty, pampered girl he could spoil and pamper and make love to.  His wife shouldn't work since he can easily afford to support her.  His wife definitely should not have to slay demons and ugly things that go bump in the night.  Like any modern man, Angel confused what he liked and what he wanted.  Go figure!

He isn't ashamed, doesn't feel the least bit guilty for keeping me at Edenscroft.  In his mind, I'm his wife and he has the right to make my choices for me.  Any choices.

I wish I had studied history more instead of relying on Willow to help me cram enough to pass exams and get by.

I wish I'd realised that being the Slayer was more important to me than being Angel's girl.

I thought I was locked into slaying, had to do it.  I didn't realised that I had an instinctive need to want to do it.  They say Faith is holding the Hell Mouth together quite well these days.  Giles is always nervous when we talk about it.  I can't imagine how he must feel, what a position he's in.  He's one of my best friends, my trainer, my Watcher.  He knows me, the real me, and he knows I don't really want what's happened between Angel and me.  He also knows if I turn away from Angel, take my heart away from him, we lose him for good.  Angelus comes back forever.  Willow can't curse him again--no witch can overide her own magic.  Faith isn't bothered by this--she's always been a better Slayer than I am, she was true to her killer instinct even if she let it get the best of her for a while.  She'd kill Angelus in a heartbeat and go home whistling Dixie afterwards.

Sometimes, I wish I'd never forced Angel to drink me up when Faith shot that poisoned arrow into his body.  If he'd died, I'd still love him as my romantic ideal, my first love...

But my love is here with me now, bound to me through legal paperwork as well as a soulful love and a dangerous curse, and his thick brow has shot up impatiently because I'm still dressed.

It excites Angel to watch me step out of my shoes and remove my underthings while he’s  fully dressed.  It makes me feel cheapened somehow.

And, dammit, he’s gorgeous in his tux and tails!  They fit him perfectly, moulding to his whipcord muscles where it needs to and gliding neatly over everything else.

But he’s most beautiful wearing nothing at all.

I’m still in love with him, in spite of everything.  Even when he scares me.  I’ve always loved him.  I always will.

I reach for the heavy emerald necklace he gave me this afternoon.

“Leave it.”

He takes my hand and leads me to the small alcove outside my supersized Byzantine bathroom.  I feel my breath hitch in the top of my throat as I see the impossible.

The alcove is my dressing-room and Angel designed it with mirrors on all four walls.  There’s still enough power shopper in me to appreciate a room like this, with perfect lighting and great mirrors extending from the ceiling to the floor  so that I see how my outfits look from every angle and if they work with my shoes.

But it’s what I see in the mirrors that is amazing, beautiful–and impossible.

I see myself, totally naked and even now I’m a little afraid of that.  It’s childish, foolish.  Angel tells me I should love my body, that I’m beautiful, perfect.  I don’t know why it scares me to look at myself.  I work out, try to eat right, yadda-yadda-yadda.  I think what really bothers me is the change–I mean, the abnormal change.

Since I’ve lived with Angel, I haven’t changed at all.  My body is every bit the same as it was when he first invited me to Edenscroft.  My hair grows, my nails grow.  But my body weight and body fat analysis haven’t altered the slightest bit.  No matter how hard I work out, my muscle bulk doesn’t increase.  The character lines in the corners of my eyes haven’t deepened, and I think they might even be fading, disappearing.  And my face is getting rounder, not fat, just the childishly rounded contours of my middle teenage years.  When Angel first saw me and loved me.

*I don’t want to think about this!  I don’t want to!  I don’t want to think about how happy Angel’s been, how I only seem to grow closer to him, almost read his thoughts at times, and the rest of the world and the rest of my life is fading further and further away until it almost isn't real!.  I don’t want to wonder why I eat less grain and more meat than I ever have in my life.  And the cranberry juice–the fresh chilled glasses Ephraim brings to me every day, so cooly wet  and delicious and red...I think I know what it means...*

The truly amazing thing is that my reflection doesn’t stand alone in the mirrors surrounding us.  Behind me is my love–my new husband.  His reflection is as stunning as his reality.  I drink in his features greedily, my eyes wide.  Squarish masculine jaw, the firm hollow of each high-placed cheekbone, thin cruel, hard-looking lips and sharp, beautifully even white teeth.  His nose is too wide for him to be conventionally handsome, maybe, but I don’t care, he’s too beautiful for convention.  The prominent brow over deep-set eyes that say so much–deep, rich, the colour of steaming espresso, a perfect match to his thick wavy hair.  I’ve seen those eyes so tender and full of emotion it made me cry.  I’ve seen those same eyes, dead and merciless as a shark’s seeking my blood.

“Angel.”  I can’t keep the wonder from my voice.  “Wh-what is it?”  I reach out to touch his reflection and I see his face contort, work in pleasure as though I’d actually touched him.  Somehow, I feel less lonely.

“These mirrors are blessed,” he whispers in a husky mellow voice while he bends over me to press a hot kiss on the spot directly behind my ear.  I stare, incredulous, as his reflection kisses mine.  “They reflect the soul–no matter what vessel it’s in.”

“Angel...” 

His hands travel the sides of my body, rising to cup my breasts and I gasp when I realise how aroused I already am.  His fingers swirl over my nipples, racing them into tense peaks that tingle and ache.  How to describe the idiotic joy I feel when I see his reflection teasing me?  How can a simple thing, such as a reflection, make him more real than he was a moment ago?

He jerks me around hastily, gently pushing me until I’m leaning back slightly against the cold marble lavatory.  It’s cold and solid, hard on my ass and I brace myself with my hands when he drops to his knees in front of me. 

“Watch me love you,” he orders, spreading my thighs.

I watch him at first, still marvelling that he’s real, that I can see him in the mirror–his soul opening my legs and kissing me, licking me, fingers wandering inside me until I can’t watch anymore.  It feels too good and I’m trembling, gripping the hard smooth marble of the lavatory and little unintelligible noises come out of me.  I want to beg for more, I want pleasure, and I’m also afraid because we’ve never done this, I’ve never been able to see him make love to me in a mirror before so I want to stop.

“Please!”

He glances up at me and smiles, sensing my apprehension.  Instead of stopping, though, it only spurs him forward.  Angel is a predator and fear excites him.  He lashes my clitoris with his tongue, skilled and sure of his touch and its effect on me.  I feel myself melting and getting wetter as he traces every bit of my labia and his fingers continue a regular stroke within me. 

“Angel!”

“Lover!”

“PLEASE!!!” 

I explode against his face, his tongue so insistent against my clit, my inner muscles grasping convulsively at his fingers, searching for the thickness of  Angel’s cock.   He kisses me harder, more deeply, penetrating me with his tongue to lap up my secretions.  Firm swipes of his tongue against my inflamed tissues.

I can’t stay still-can’t–Oh god, ANGEL!

My knees buckle and he’s right there, holding me gently while I weep because this feels too good.  Every time I think there’s nothing left for him to teach me, nothing that will make my fire burn hotter, he proves me wrong.  He’s my lover, my husband.  My soul mate.  I belong to him, he told me so once, before he brought me here.

He seats me on the cold marble and I gasp from the cold smoothness against my burning skin.  He’s smiling, tender and cocksure, pleased with his prowess just like any man would be.  And why shouldn’t he be?  He’s just made me come twice when he hasn’t even taken his clothes off.

But they’re coming off now.  I’m gripping his coat and forcing it off his shoulders, tugging the sleeves down his arms.  The white tie, cuff links, waistcoat, suspenders...All of it, gone, some of it not in one piece.  I break the buttons on his pants and force the fabric off his hips along with his silk undershorts.

His cock springs free, the hard uncircumcised tip already slightly moist and I feel calmer, knowing he’s just as hot as I am.  He points upward proudly, a thick column of flesh tumescent with hunger for the heat of my body.  My labia are slippery against the marble sink top.  I smell musky and I detect Angel’s scent, more subtle than mine, but profound to me, like a precious memory of a beautiful day.

I want him so badly!  I love him.  I always have.

I squeal as he bends his head to taste my breast, kissing the hardened tip and nuzzling, suckling hungrily as I cradle his head against me, closing my eyes to savor the softness of his perfectly smooth skin, his silky hair on my flesh.  His fingers roam over me, constantly exploring and rediscovering places on my flesh that his touch can make me moan or arch my back and sob his name.  Now he licks my other breast, flicking the nipple playfully with his tongue before he kisses a path up my throat to my mouth and we kiss like old lovers who miss each other terribly.

He lifts me easily from the tabletop, one hand under each of my rear cheeks, gripping me firmly and pulling me against him.  Instinctively, my legs curl over his hips to cling to him.  My arms hug him around his neck tightly

“Buffy,” he says softly.  “Look at me.”

I glance from the fantastically erotic picture of our reflection to meet his eyes.  He’s dark, filled with passion, but also very serious.  My sex is spread and pouting for him, weeping honey drops onto my pubic hair.

“Tonight is new–completely new,” he explained.  He smiles, a soft curl in one corner of his mouth at my confusion.  “Your new emerald–it’s for fidelity, it makes you new for me tonight.”

“I don’t underst–”

He thrusts up hard into me and I scream at the sudden ripping sensation as his body pierces mine.  I sob, not just with passion though I still feel plenty. 

“Angel!”

He lowers himself to his knees, never releasing his hold on me.  My stretched torn body clings to his invading cock and his scent mingles with mine.    I’m crying, can’t stop it, it hurts terribly.

Just as much as it hurt the first time we ever did it.  I wish he'd warned me.  I understand it though, making me new for him, making this loving our first.  It's his old-fashioned ego, not wanting there to have been others besides himself.  Tonight, we start over.  From tonight onwards, I'm only for him.  He doesn't have to share me with the world.  I don't have to slay.  Wes, Cordy, and Gunn are way on top of Angel Investigations, he's hardly needed anymore.  He gave up the hotel project and left it in his partner's hands.

This is what obsession is.  This is what it does to people.  This is why neither Angel or I could never really let go of what we felt years ago.  Obsession is when nothing in the world matters but what you want to be true.  This is our truth.

He is soothing me, loving me, kissing my tears and crooning odd comforting words to me, waiting for me to stop trembling and clenching against him, waiting for me to relax and accept him.

I’m bleeding.  Angel’s demonic features are gliding through his human beauty, enticed by my smell.  I touch and kiss his face tenderly, rub my cheek against his. 

*I love you so much–both of you...I always have...*

Now his teeth pierce my throat and I groan with that new pleasure.  I've never forgotten the joy it gave me to feed him, the wild euphoria of that intimacy, just another form of making love.  Exquisite, painful, beautiful.  An act of sacrament because it's Angel taking me, my blood and my sex.

His hips ride up against me and I tighten my thighs over him to press back.  Tenderness in his flashing dark eyes as he licks his lips, not the most comfortable position for virginal intercourse but deliciously intimate.  I watch his eyes darken and bleed golden, then darken again.

“Buffy!” he growls against my mouth.

“Lover!” I cry hoarsely.

I rock against him, riding his thrusts, our eyes locked to each other's as we pound our bodies together.  Friction, heat, hunger, pleasure, pain.  His cock is steel covered in padded silk rushing through my body.  My hair falls around us, sweeping over his hands and caressing my spine.  I score Angel’s broad strong back with my nails and he roars, thrusting up so hard he hits my womb.

Curious, I glance at our reflection to my right.  The woman I see is wild, not someone I ever thought of myself as being.  I look like I'm seventeen again, but my eyes are blazing in passion, my mouth swollen and still reaching up for more hard kisses.  I think I look like a porn actress.  I've been so intimate with Angel, done things I never imagined I'd do with anyone.  I've swallowed his cum and loved him while I did it.  I've lain on my belly and taken him in my ass and every damn time I've been so afraid that I wasn't ready, relaxed enough, that Angel would rip me in half.  I always whimper and struggle a little because he likes to grip my hips and seduce me into that particular loving, guiding me slowly and building momentum until the climax rips through us both.  Nice girls don't like this kind of thing.  I didn't know I had it in me to be this kind of woman.  I didn't know I could be wild and like it.  Wild is supposed to be dangerous. 

I wonder if Angel knew I was wild when he chose me.  Does he love me more for it, since it makes me a better match for him, or does it disgust him?

He rises, incredibly without breaking the pattern of his strokes, and manages to carry me to our waiting bed.  I can’t help sighing in relief when he settles me flat on my back, adjusting the depth he can drive into my body.   I cup his face in my hands, reach up to kiss him on the mouth.

I rock back up to meet his thrusts and his pubic bone pounds the sensitive knot of my clit.

“Angel–I–God!–I love you!”  I scream as I come for him, my inner folds working magic to cling to him and spill hot wetness all over the both of us.  His game features morph over again and I moan weakly, helpless with pleasure.   My insides are throbbing, wave after wave of burning spasms.

I’m not lying.  I do love him.  More than anything or anybody.

His fingers have taloned edges and he rips a deep wound above his left nipple.  The smell of Angel's blood is incredibly sweetly wild to me.  I don't know how he lived near me and interacted with me day in and day out if my blood smelled half so hot and enticing to him. 

"Drink."  His voice is soft and velvety deep, I feel it all over as I sit up and lean against his powerful body.  He clenches all over, muscles rippling as if an electric current made them react, and gives an amazing sigh as I flick the tip of my tongue on his nipple, catching the stream of warm life above it.  Angel's life, my life. 

"My love."  I smell his tears.  He is so happy!  *I love you too, Angel, I always wanted to make you happy, baby.*

"You are my soul."  My heart clenches and sings. 

I’m not sorry I belong to him now, that I’m part of his world forever. 

I don’t even resent him for taking my old life away from me.  Not anymore.

But I still miss it.  I always will...

~FINIS~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is definitely a darker Buffy/Angel relationship fic.  I wrote it this way because this is how I visualised their bonding in the future.  Too often, it is easy to look back on our first loves and wonder what might have been when the truth is we've changed so much our first loves probably wouldn't even recognise/identify with the people we become in 10 or 20 years.  This is my view on what might have happened to them if they never got past the past.

Also, I don't think the show has ever really revealed Angel(us) as growing past his human era.  A lot of his attitudes reflect upon his past/human life and I have always seen Angel/Angelus as different sides of one coin.  I don't see Angelus as a seperate entity, I see him as the very WORST of Angel.  Just because Angel has a soul doesn't mean he couldn't share and indulge some of those same qualities.

Hope you liked it, Jenn!  Thanks for the inspiration! : )

Okay, feedback is definitely appreciated–this is my first attempt at angst/dark fic as well as Buffy/Angel so please show tact if you hate it!  Thanks.  PJ

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