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Not Yourself

So, here's some post-series Angel/Illyria hatesex…

This was written for still_grrr's "Jekyll and Hyde" prompt.




Not Yourself

Fred opens Angel’s door one evening, walking barefooted towards his bed with a soft smile — and Angel sits up, startled.

“What are you–”

“Shhh.” Fred touches his lips with her fingers… and it really is Fred, her smell, her eyes, her skin, her voice talking in lilting Texan: “For tonight, let’s just be us.”

Not that there’s any choice — the others are gone, so it’s always “just them”, alone and angry forever — but Fred is here and kissing him, and Angel is aching with loneliness and fear and need, so he surrenders, kisses her back.

Tonight it’s him and Fred, Fred who is licking his neck, straddling him, running her hands across his bare skin, eyes bright with laughter as she — Fred — kisses him again, breath quickening as she shudders with feeling, Fred and him together, the two of them ripe with longing, it’s Fred who’s making him gasp, Fred whose breasts he’s kissing, Fred who’s making him come…

Then she grabs his hair, pulls his head back with forceful hands, and says in a hard voice, “I am not Fred, Darla, nor anyone else you love” — and he’s jolted out of the fantasy with a gasp, coming in a rush of shocked despair.

Angel struggles into a sitting position, suddenly cold. “Why did you do that?”

Fred looks at him — no, not Fred, no matter how much she might look like her, Illyria’s eyes are distant and unfeeling — and asks, “Did you want to lose your soul?”

Then, as if that’s all that needs saying, she climbs off him, and walks from the room.




She doesn’t mention it the next day. Or any of the days after that.

But he catches himself watching her, his eyes tracing the lines of her back as she walks through what’s left of Los Angeles.

He almost asks her — but although he opens his mouth to begin the conversation, the words just won’t be said.

She’s so horribly self-possessed. And Angel has no idea how to tell her she’s doing something stupid.




It’s Fred in his arms, Fred’s skin so warm and luscious, Fred’s breath against his mouth, Fred gasping with desire, Fred’s hands on him working expertly, Fred’s back arching, Fred he’s inside, Fred making his body tremble… Fred who wants him… Fred… Fred… Fred…




Angel washes his face, and tries not to think.

He feels… cold. Cold and dead. But then, he always does — afterwards.

The other night, she was licking him, mouth moving skilfully, working him closer and closer to the edge of everything — how was he supposed to stay still under all that? — so he gripped the sheets and gave a sort of half-laugh …and Illyria threw him across the room. Laughter is off-limits.

She’s called him names, told him he’s never been loved and never will be, cursed his name — always slamming him back to hideous, ridiculous reality one exact instant before he comes.

Tonight she was Fred, and she was gentle, tender, slowly kissing him with quiet longing, eyes on his, drinking him in, holding him as if he was her world…

…and then telling him bluntly that Wesley was much better in bed than he was, and Angel hadn’t pleased her at all.

It’s like being repeatedly kicked in the face.




Illyria holds up the severed head, and inspects it carefully. “Weak vermin,” she pronounces. “It did not deserve so much of our time and attention.”

Trigger-happy godkings.

“It still has hostages somewhere,” Angel says.

“Well? We will find them and release them.”

He rolls his eyes, frustrated. “It just would have been easier if he’d been alive long enough to answer some questions. Next time, how about you don’t rip their heads off right away?”

“I do not take orders from you, vampire.” Her voice is scornful, dismissive. “I am more than you will ever be.”

Illyria drops the head, and kicks it aside.




Angel pushes Fred back against the wall, hands forceful, keeping her in place as he kisses her mouth, neck, collarbone. She gasps, and he moves his hands to her breasts, wondering if he can make her forget about self-control and scream when she comes.

He keeps her pressed back against the apartment’s faded wallpaper — no, the Hyperion, it’s the Hyperion, Fred and him together with the others downstairs — and manoeuvres one hand under her skirt, fingers scraping roughly against her.

She gasps again, and he stops.

“Angel–”

He presses against her. “You want me.”

“Yes.”

“You want me to keep going?”

“Yes!”

“Sure?” His fingers tease lightly and then pull away again.

“Oh God, don’t stop, you bastard!”

He presses his hand against her firmly, and Fred bites her lip, her body shuddering.

Fred, it’s Fred, Fred’s body pressed against his, Fred breathing fast and shallow, Fred he’s screwing.

She arches at his touch — then pulls her fingernails hard down his chest, smiling sweetly as he winces.

“Bitch.” But Fred kisses him, and — Fred, it’s Fred, she’s here — he kisses her back hungrily.

And then he grabs her wrists, pins them to the wall, and pushes inside her. She rocks her hips back slightly, making them both gasp.

And she looks at him, eyes full of hatred — but distracted, breathless, aching hatred — because Angel’s going to make her come and keep coming tonight, until she admits that, sometimes, she’s putty in his hands.




“Do you ever miss sunsets?”

“Sometimes.”

She’s sitting on the roof of the building, looking like Fred — her arms wrapped around her knees, and her eyes still fixed on the last orange glimpses of the disappearing sun. “I s’pose you could look at photos of them and stuff, but it doesn’t seem fair that you have to miss out on the real ones. They’re always kinda pretty, even on overcast days.”

“I remember.” Fred is sitting there — right there! — and he hates her for doing this, for looking so much like she isn’t a copy. Angel almost turned back and went inside again when he saw her — but who is he kidding? He can’t look away. And he hates her.

“The sunsets in Pylea were interesting. Except having two suns changed the refraction completely, so we never really got them as orangey as they are here.”

You weren’t ever in Pylea,” he says flatly.

She just laughs, looking at him with a lopsided Fredish grin. “Oh, Lord. Don’t tell me you’re getting forgetful in your old age.”

Fake. Actor. She’s sitting there looking so real.

“I haven’t forgotten. You’re a thief. You stole memories from her.”

Illyria’s voice changes tone. “And you are putrefying slime,” she says matter-of-factly. “You love this form — don’t pretend horror when I use it for my own pleasure.”

He doesn’t know what to say.

Fred stretches out her legs and breathes in the evening air. “I love it up here,” she says. “With this view, it’s almost as nice as Texas.”




They fuck, with the lights off — going purely by touch.

Her hands on him, his mouth on her, it’s all skin and sweat and sharp breaths, and he can almost pretend she’s not Fred, not anyone, just a faceless woman from a world where his friends aren’t all dead. Almost.

But her scent — like this, she smells completely like Fred, and the smell tears him away from forgetting.

So instead he loses himself in the smell of her, and tries once again to believe that she’s here, and real, and his.

This is Fred he’s smelling, his hands are on Fred, it’s Fred he’s licking, tasting, it’s Fred who’s saying his name…

As Angel comes, Illyria digs her nails in sharply and says, “There is nothing good left in you.” — and for one terrible moment, he believes her.



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