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Shivering Under the Pain of Your Touch

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The room was so stiflingly hot that Willow felt feverish as Angelus added fuel to the fire, piling on logs of cedar because he enjoyed the scent. Willow, chained to a brick sidewall of the fireplace, tried to hold the shackles so they wouldn't burn her, the initially cold metal having long since conducted the heat of the fire along the length of the chain. She was able to keep her wrists free of the burning metal, mostly, but only when Angelus wasn't cutting, whipping, or stabbing her.

“You know Willow,” he said, putting down a knife so sharp and precise that she'd thought of a surgeon's blade when she'd first seen it. Her second thought hadn't been so detached. He held his hands together, as if in prayer, the tips of his fingers covering his lips, and then released one forward and outward, as if offering her a gift. “I had been planning to kill you and leave your body for Buffy to find.” As he walked towards her, a half grin crept across his lips. “Who am I kidding? That's definitely on the menu, but I'm beginning to think you have unexplored depths.” His hand slid under her skirt so slowly it seemed that she had time enough to think of a thousand scenarios for what he was about to do to her. As he shoved two fingers into her, so fast that she couldn't follow the motion, they were just suddenly there, she jerked back, burning her wrists against the shackles, letting out the harsh scream of a throat so sore it could only croak. As he almost gently brushed his fingers against her hymen, he added, “Such unexplored depths. Fiery caverns of pain, humiliation, and despair.”

Earlier that evening, after he'd first chained her up, Willow had invoked Buffy's name like a threat and had swung the then cool chains at him. He'd dodged them easily enough, laughing as if enjoying her attack, but that's when he'd stabbed her. It seemed like a century ago even though Willow could look down and see the wet blood on her shirt. “You're thinking of Buffy,” he said, and Willow wondered if he could read her thoughts. “While she might find this place, eventually, it won't be soon enough to save you,” he said gently.

Pulling out a key, he unlocked her shackles. As the second one hit the floor, freeing her from the chains, Willow threw herself towards the door, trying to escape even while certain it wouldn't work. He caught her before she'd taken two steps. Holding her from behind, he grazed his fangs against her throat until she shivered beneath him. “Ah lassie,” he whispered, “it's wonderful to see such anticipation, but you were heading in the wrong direction. My bedroom is this way.”

Picking her up as if she weighed nothing, Angelus carried Willow to his room. Tossing her onto the bed, he straddled her, securing her with his body, until she'd been tied to the bed. Willow tested the ropes, pulling against them, but only for a moment. They felt like razors against her wrists, cutting into her burnt skin, which was puffed up, tender, and excruciatingly sensitive. Willow held herself still, trying to minimize both damage and pain, until Angelus fell on her. She screamed as he slammed into her, the force of his thrusts shaking the bed, scraping her wrists against the ropes, rubbing her wounds raw.