He belongs to her.


There were times that Angel could hear it whispering.

At the back of his now rotted mind, there would always be struggles. A grapple, of sorts; the winner being the decider of how his night would go.

Things that normally would be of no thought suddenly became too intense to ignore.

"Did you smell the fear on that one? It was a stong, slow but steady river. Those ones are rare, remember? If you had just taken a taste, she would've turned into a waterfall for you."

"Darla would have loved to receive that child from you at one time."

"Look at Buffy's wrists. Just look at them. Imagine what you could make her feel through them."

Part of him wanted to give in. At least when he was uninhibited, he had a family of sorts. And he did whatever he wanted.

He would take her; in his dreams, he would make her rip out his soul with those powerful tiny thighs, and then he could have all of her.

Even the parts denied to him, but thrown wantonly at others, like scraps to dogs.

He was glad he loved her. She had saved him, and though she may not always be his, he would never fail to belong wholly to her.