Author's note: This is what happens when you have a hyperactive muse, a very strong obsession with Michael Sheen, and a love of angst. I am actually all for Andre/Claire, I really am. But, this came to me one night, and I had to write it. Hope anyone who reads it, enjoys it. Please review.

Disclaimer: I do not own Oliver, Claire, or Andre Marek, they belong to Michael Crichton and Paramount pictures. I make no claim on them. Please don't sue me. Savvy?

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nothing stands between us here
and I won't be denied

and I would be the one
to hold you down
kiss you so hard
I'll take your breath away
and after, I'd wipe away the tears
just close your eyes...

POSSESSION

It should have been his name, coming from her lips in that last scream of pleasure, her body trembling from the force of the most delicious experience she'd ever had. It should have been his name she cried out, should have been his face she saw, his lips she kissed.

But Andre Marek had left her mind the moment Oliver had kissed her.

As the pleasure subsided, leaving her body tired and almost numb, she cried. Tears of guilt, shame, loss, hurt. She did not struggle as he wiped them away, his voice soothing now, his fingers soft. The same fingers that had slapped her less than even ten hours ago.

"Do not cry, Lady," he whispered, his voice strangely gentle, comforting. He kissed her tear stained cheeks, his tongue licking at the remains of her shame. He had taken her, taken something precious, something that should have been Andre's.

Yet, he had not truly taken it, she had given it. Of her own free, accursed will, she had given it. Why, she could not say now, but minutes ago, she had been unable to deny him anything. Had he asked her to kill herself, she might have even done that. She cursed him silently, damning him for making her so submissive with just a kiss.

Her eyes burned now, burned from the weeping she was slowly ceasing, his words of comfort, though empty, fulfilling their purpose.

"Come now, we can't have you looking like this when we go outside to watch the battle, can we?" he asked her softly. "Hush, hush, lovely Claire, strong and brave as a queen," he whispered. He kissed her again, his lips soft. The kiss was not unlike the one Andre had given her, soft and gentle yet passionate. It had not like this before with the English lord.

Claire tried to block it all out, tried to forget what had happened. She tried to focus on the kiss Oliver was giving her now, so much like Andre's. She tried to think of Andre Marek, her rescuer, noble and kind and probably dead. But she could not help remembering what had happened.

Oliver had been wild, rough, demanding until they were finished. Now he was soft, kind, so gentle, it was as though he were trying to comfort her for what he had done. But before, after the English soldiers had dragged her to his room here in La Roque, before he had been fierce and demanding.

Claire had struggled against him at first, she had tried to slap him again as soon as the guards had left. That should have been her first clue of what he was planning, but she was to blinded by rage and worry for her brother, her people, and Andre to think that Oliver might actually want her for himself before the battle. She had struggled when he'd grabbed her arm before it could reach his cheek, she had struggled when he'd pulled her to him, grabbing her other arm and then pinning her on the bed. Then she realized his plans, and had struggled even more fiercely, now screaming at him to let her go.

But then, then he had kissed her. The English bastard had kissed her, his mouth hot and damaging, making her warm inside, making her give in. She had slowly stopped struggling with him, instead struggling with herself to keep from responding in kind. But her body had gone against her will, her slowly weakening will.

She had heard his chuckle, his infuriating, smug, triumphant chuckle, had felt him smirk against her skin as his mouth traveled to her neck. She had almost been able to close herself of to him then, almost been able to struggle against him again. But then he had kissed her again, his tongue entering into her mouth as soon as she part her lips in surprise.

His hands had gone under her shirt then, long fingers kneading her flesh tauntingly, roughly yet so wonderfully exquisite, it made her moan and arch her back as his hands lifted up her shirt. He tore the shirt over her shoulders and arms, her head until her upper body was bared to his scalding gaze, the baggy shirt lying on the floor, forgotten.

She had let him take it off, helped him practically, had pushed herself up enough for it to come off. She had simply laid there, letting him look at her nude torso and chest, let his hands roam over her breasts. She had let him kiss her again, let his tongue snake inside to touch hers.

She had returned the kiss, had slowly let her own tongue dart into his mouth. She had wrapped her arms around him, pulling him down on top of her, pressing his still clothed torso against her nude one. She had let her fingers pull at his clothing, had let herself moan as his warrior hands rubbed her side, his fingers moving to again massage her breasts.

He was still rough, still demanding, yet she was beginning to return the passion. He let her undress him, her fingernails raking down his chest once she had rid him of his shirt. He had groaned in pleasure, making her repeat the motion. He had let her pull him down to her again, this time her bare chest meeting skin and coarse hair instead of clothing.

With bruising force he had held her to him, just as thankful for her skin against his. She would have bruises tomorrow, should she live. She had scratched at him, her fingers digging into his back while his stroked her abdomen as he lifted up enough to rid them both of their leftover clothing.

Claire stared Oliver in the eye, determined she would not look down. She tried to focus on his eyes, his cocky, triumphant eyes. His smirk, the same as the look in his eyes as he laid down on top of her again, and she gasped as she felt it. Panic and struggle almost came back to her, but again, he stopped it with a kiss, searing, blinding.

"Brace yourself, Lady," he had whispered into her ear, his teeth moving to nibbling on the skin right below it after he spoke.

She knew what that meant. She had known what he was about to do, but she had kept still, had let him in without a fight. She had let him take, had given him all her innocence left, something precious.

He had entered her quickly, kissing her as he did, muffling her cry at the brief, sharp pain. For several moments, he had simply lie there, inside her, still. He had watched her, his hands holding hers, fingers intertwining.

"Still hurt?" he had asked, watching her with a blank expression then. He had not shown what could be called kindness, perhaps mercy would be better. But as soon as she shook her head, informing him she was fine, he had begun to move, thrusting into her. He had let go of her hands and trailed up her arms to her breasts and abdomen, stroking her skin as he thrust into her fiercely.

Claire had moaned, whimpered, gasped as he touched her, as he repeatedly entered her body. She had wrapped her legs around him, her arms, clutching him to her tightly as she felt pleasure and warmth building in her stomach.

"Say my name," he had instructed her breathlessly, his voice husky. "Say my name."

She had shaken her head, trying to put up one last fight, but as his hands had moved down to her hips, holding her in place, holding her to him, she had cried out, moaned his name. She wanted to curse him when she felt him smirk against her neck as he elicited his name from her, but she had only been able to moan again.

Oliver had started to groan as well then, his own pleasure obviously building as well. His movements became faster, harder, deeper. As if he had become desperate for release. Abruptly, he had leaned down and kissed her feverishly, his hands digging into her flesh, and his position had changed slightly.

Claire had moaned loudly, moving her mouth to his shoulder, biting down to keep from screaming as it came, rapture, blinding and searing, more so than any kiss, any touch his body had brought yet. She'd heard him groan again, louder than before and he had stilled. Her stomach felt hot and she realized he had come as well, sending his seed into her.

"Oliver," she had finally screamed, unable to hold it back any longer. And now here she lie, spent and sore under his burning flesh, his voice and fingers soothing and comforting now.

"Why?" she cried softly, meeting his eyes for the first time since they had finished. "Why?"

The English lord kissed her forehead. "Because I wanted you, Lady," he told her. "I wanted you, and still do. But I am here for France, for victory, therefore I will settle for France without you, unless your brother cares for you more than his country."

"He will not surrender," she stated bravely. "He will not surrender even for me."

Oliver stared down at her. "I know. Which is why I took you here, now." He rose, lifting himself up, leaving her body cold and empty. "Get dressed, the battle begins within a half hour."

Claire watched as Oliver dressed himself before handing her own garments back to her. She took them, shakily standing up and dressing.

She thought of Andre, wondering if he was dead. She would never see him again, not even if her somehow was alive. She would die tonight. But she would die knowing it should have been Andre she had given herself to, not the English bastard that would not take her country.

It should have been Andre. But it hadn't been.