Your Cheating Heart

Angelus liked cigarettes. Sweet, warm smoke in the lungs. It dirtied the bloodstream a little, so it made the need for some extra killing. He remembered his first kill in over 80 years...a taste of smoke along with it, like a drop of caviar on a canapé. Very nice. He drew in again, watched the glowing end of the cigarette smolder.

"Have I got a spot on my dress, my Angel?" Drucilla was pouting, turning in the moonlight, eyes on the front of her dress. It was a low-cut number, red satin; her tiny breasts managed to peep out of the top of it. Her eyes flicked up, catching his flirtatiously. Why not? he thought, but then, an idea......

"Let's get inside," he said, and they returned to the factory.

Spike eyed them sourly and addressed Dru.

"Did you get a nice kill, ducks?"

Dru leaned on Angelus. "My Angel got me a plump housewife. She'd had a few drinks."

"You're a bit tipsy then, are you?"

Dru giggled and stroked a finger across Angelus' cheek.

"Her young lover had a few, too," said Angelus, "You know humans, they have to medicate themselves when they cheat," his fingers crept around Dru's tiny waist.

"Uh-hunh," said Spike blankly. He turned and wheeled away from them, brooding.

Angelus made a sudden sound like a gasp.

"What?" asked Spike, irritated.

"Did you hear that?" said Angelus.

"What?" demanded Spike.

"Sometimes..." Angelus held up one finger and walked in a tight circle, "Sometimes down here, you can hear things..." he waited for Spike and Dru to look at him questioningly, then he seized Dru and threw her over his shoulder. He climbed over the stair railing and jumped onto the stairs one level below.

"Spike!" yelled Angelus.

Spike didn't answer.

"You can hear me, can't you, buddy?"

Spike glowered and pushed his wheelchair as far away as possible, but yes, he could hear Angelus, loud and clear.

He heard Drucilla let out a delighted shriek. Angelus grunted. "Best thing for you," he called, "Is to be reminded about what you're missing. Motivational sound effects. What do you think, Spikey?"

Spike set his teeth.

Angelus put Dru on a stair above himself and slipped his hands up inside her dress. Her legs were incredibly thin, with coltish knees. Not bad, although in his day Angelus had liked them just a little meatier. At least she was still warm from the kill; Dru couldn't hold enough heat to melt a single snowflake, ordinarily.

"Take your dress off," he said.

"You do it,"she said, showing her teeth.

She'd been known to throw tantrums over dresses. Perfect. He ripped it from her body.

Dru screeched. "My dress! My dress! OOooooo!"

"Don't worry, Dru, Spike will get you another one. Hey, Spike! Sorry about the dress, buddy!"

Dru was looking down at him. One thing about undead girls. They liked it rough. Really rough. Angelus pulled her down onto the metal steps. She hit them with a bang. He chuckled and grabbed her hips; he sunk his mouth into her little nest of curls. Dru began to practically sing with happiness; she was swaying in time to some kind of music she was picking up from somewhere, like a satellite dish. Angelus thought about blood, to bring his fangs up; he pressed one directly against her nub of nerves and rubbed it back and forth, lacerating the tissues just enough. Dru's pitch picked up. Her legs tensed. The point now was to give Spike a concert. He worked her for a while, harder and harder. He found himself becoming bored. Undead females always wanted the same thing, and it took a lot of work to get to them. He was assaulted suddenly by a thought of Buffy, golden and soft and hot like a little furnace in his arms. Buffy's cries had filled his ears, her crooning dove sounds, sounds that drove him nuts because they were like a soundtrack to whatever he was doing to her, they described what she was feeling as he did it. Buffy was his Stradivarius. He was annoyed to realize that he was hard now, because he was thinking about Buffy. Drucilla was beginning to babble in some other language and thrash her head against the stairs. Angelus kept her at that level, backing off until she started to cool and then putting it to her harder again. This was much more difficult to do to Buffy, because she was so full of life that he had to work to hold her back; the trick with Buffy was how to keep her from coming, to draw it out. Dru began to scream with frustration. He almost laughed, imagining Spike's misery. What was it about misery? He loved it. Dru was starting to thrash more violently and was becoming a pain, so he bit right into her, and she finally exploded. While she was coming he lapped up the blood he'd drawn.

He rose, chucking, and tilted his head up; he was going to yell to Spike, but his eyes met Buffy's. She was leaning over the railing and had been watching. Her face held all the hurt and dismay and horror he could ever have asked for. Double good, he thought. He grinned at her.

"Next?" he said.

She disappeared. He bolted up the stairs.

"Where is she?" he yelled at Spike, who looked blankly at him.


"Buffy, you jack-"

His insult was cut off by the sensation of a shovel hitting the back of his head. He went down hard, then struggled up. He was hit again, this time in the gut; he bent over, stunned. Buffy's boot jammed into his nose with such power that he was thrown up and onto his back. He heard the shovel clang on the floor. Part of him was thrilled by her strength, and always had been. Another part was hurting and wanted her dead.

She was winding up to give it to him straight between the legs, when Drucilla grasped a handful of Buffy's hair and threw her down like a doll. Buffy rolled backward and kicked Dru in the face.

"Look at that, will you? A real live cat fight," mused Spike.

Angelus was crouched on the floor, recovering. It was a sight, naked Dru and Buffy going at it. Buffy kicked Dru once, twice, three times in the sternum, shoving her backward. Dru sat, temporarily delayed.

"I don't know how to say this in a nice way, girlfriend," said Buffy, "So I'll just say it. Kate Moss you're not. Starving cadaver, maybe. 'Course, cadavers do wear better makeup,"

Dru screeched and lunged. Buffy ducked and struck out with a side kick, sending her sprawling. Buffy turned and paused, looking at Angelus on the floor. Dru tackled Buffy and sat on her chest.

"Look at me," said Dru.

Buffy twisted under her, but couldn't break the hold.

"Look at me," said Dru, catching Buffy's eyes with her finger motions, hypnotizing her, "Look into me, be in me, be in my eyes," Buffy fought, all of her will brought against the irresistible draw of Drucilla's wide, strange eyes.

A boot caught Dru's cheekbone and she went scrambling. It was Angelus' boot.

"Get up,"

Buffy looked up at him, dazed, and shook herself together. She jumped up, alert.

"Angel!" Dru whined, "I get to play!"

"She isn't yours, Dru,"

"Why not?"

"She's mine,"

"You like her!" wailed Drucilla, "You like her better than me!"

Angelus turned on her. "Shut up!" he bellowed. Drucilla cowered, running to Spike. Angelus turned and saw Buffy gone. He bolted after her.

Angelus stalked into the graveyard, looked to the left, and was struck hard on the right. His head rang, until it was bashed into a marble tombstone. He saw black, and shook it off.

"What are you following me for? Go back and fuck your dead bitch," said Buffy.

Angelus exploded in laughter. He had never heard Buffy use either of those expressions before. It struck him as hilariously incongruous and, underneath in a place he couldn't admit to, as cute.

"Well, she got me hot, but she didn't finish me off, lover. That used to be your job,"

"I have a job," said Buffy. She pulled out a stake.

"Think you're up to it?"

"I'm up to it,"

"I think if you were, you wouldn't care who I was 'fucking',"

"I don't care,"

"Then let's have it, lover," Angelus laid out on the grass, spread his arms wide, and smiled. "Here it is. Come and get it,"

"I'm not that stupid. Get up,"

"You should have brought your crossbow if you're afraid to get too close,"

"I'm not afraid of you. Get up,"

"Or maybe you'd be too tempted to take advantage of this," Angelus reached up and ripped his shirt open, scattering buttons. "You used to love this, remember, Buffy?" he reached inside his shirt, stroking himself.

"You're a coward," said Buffy, "You can't manipulate me. Get up and act like a man,"

Angelus giggled. "Why would I want to do that?" His hand wandered down his lean, smooth stomach, lower, lingering; the muscles rippled under his fingers as he tilted his hips and pushed his hand under his belt. "Mmmmmm," his hand moved inside his leather pants, up and down, then grasped himself and started stroking with long, smooth movements. It was obvious that his hand was truly gripping his cock. "Miss this, lover? Want to see it?"

Buffy felt an odd sensation creeping over her. She was stuck; she felt like she couldn't move. Her brain was screaming at her to kill him. Her feet were fixed in the ground, and wouldn't budge. She gripped her stake, trying to summon herself. Too humiliating, to let him get away with this. Kill him.

Angelus craned his head up to watch his hand; hands, now. One of them kept a strong, even motion going. The other pulled his zipper down and the head of his cock emerged, glistening faintly. The fingers of his free hand circled the tip with little trailing touches. He craned his head back into the grass and moaned, his tongue emerging to lick his lips. His fingers were shiny with moisture, caressing the sensitive underside of it, imitating the way she would lick it, if......

Dammit, kill him!

Angelus was beginning to breathe hard, a luxury that vampires usually didn't indulge in much, it drained them. He looked up again, staring at his hands as though they weren't his, as though they were doing things to him that he hadn't thought of, as though he were submitting. Long, slow strokes with one hand and gliding fingertips with the other. A little slippery string came away on his fingers. A small sound escaped him, something between a moan and a whine.

Buffy gritted her teeth. Her chest was heaving. God, I hate him! Heat had moved over her, she felt feverish; her skin suddenly felt every change in the air. Every nerve in her body was standing at attention.

Angelus was deep into his own pleasure. He gave soft moans with every stroke. His motions varied; he would stop, his body would move restlessly, longingly, he would start again, as if she were teasing him, as if he were waiting breathlessly for her next touch. His legs trembled. His back arched, and with the movement his cock came almost completely out into the night air, tall and thick, shining with his pleasure, quivering.

Now. Kill him now.

Buffy charged, stake up. She shouldn't have; she had no resolve. He grabbed her easily in the air, one hand seizing the stake and driving it into the ground. His arms went around her and pinned her onto him, rubbing her up and down on his body, arching against her. Buffy gave a little cry, struggling. His hand went up her skirt in one sure motion and ripped her panties off. It stung. She yelled, but he mashed her to his chest, sliding her up, and then down directly onto him, impaling her. She screamed. He flipped them over, putting all his weight onto her, and drove into her again.

"You've never been so wet, lover," he said in a harsh whisper.

It was true, she never had been. Her inner thighs were slippery, her panties had been soaked. He thrust into her again and Buffy lost herself. Electric tendrils crawled over her, through her. It was frightening, how intense the pleasure was. She suddenly felt as if she were pushed underwater, everything outside going dull and heavy; she came out of it gasping desperately, she threw her head back and let out a long, ragged shout. His body covered hers entirely. He was breathing down onto her face, eyes locked on hers, driving into her with something that resembled a radical tenderness. He was watching her carefully, gauging his motions. Buffy gave over, there was no way to fight. It wasn't so much a series of orgasms as it was a chain of them, overlapping, relentlessly building upon each other. She found herself screaming for it to end.

Angelus raised himself up on his hands. He hooked his arms under her thighs, jacked her legs up, and pounded her against the ground brutally. His face changed in mid-shout, fangs easing out, then back in. He laid on her, his face in her hair, shaking.

"I hate you," said Buffy, hoarsely.

"I hate you, too. Should we pick out a silverware pattern?"

Buffy twisted beneath him, throwing him off her. She stumbled briefly, then recovered.

"I'll kill you," she said.

"Sure, you will,"

Buffy leaped into the air and landed with both feet on his chest. He groaned. She kicked him under his chin, snapping his head back violently. She aimed another kick, but Angelus caught her foot and swung her away from him. She wasn't fighting well; her legs still felt weak. She rolled away on the ground and got to her feet.

"Looking for this?" Angelus tossed her the stake.

He was zipping himself back up. He leaned against the wall of the tomb, James-Dean-like, and lit a cigarette. His shirt, buttonless, hung open inside his coat; she could see his satiny chest, the one she used to lay her head on, the one she'd spent hours kissing. Angelus took a long drag on his cigarette and looked at her as though he just now remembered that she was there. He blew out a long trail of smoke. His eyebrows went up.


Buffy was embroiled in self-hate. He had killed people, he needed to die. He was a vicious, violent demon. She had a job to do. She held up the stake. She remembered his face buried in Drucilla's crotch, a sight that hurt her more deeply than anything else. The hurt weakened her. She realized with horror that she might cry; he would love that. No way. She swallowed hard and lowered the stake. Shame engulfed her.

"Slayer's sad," the cloying Cockney came out of the shadows. Buffy could see the gleam of Drucilla's eyes before she saw the rest of her. "Slayer's weak. She's got one paw caught in the trap of love, and she can be eaten,"

"Go home, Dru," Angelus' voice held irritation. She had interrupted the fun. So close to a complete victory, so close he could taste it.

"I don't want to go home," said Dru, "I want Slayer,"

"You can't have her, so go home,"

Drucilla pounced; Buffy stepped out and slammed a foot into her chest. Body shots weren't much good. Go for the head. Buffy twisted in a roundhouse punch, delivering it to Dru's temple. Dru stood her ground. Buffy punched again, the opposite way. Still, she was standing. Buffy sent a snap kick into Drucilla's nose. That was better. Dru went down, arms wheeling; her nails caught Buffy's cheek and raked three red lines along the length of her jaw. Angelus stepped in and drove his boot into Dru's stomach, doubling her over.

"Get out of here," said Angelus.

Buffy sneered at him.

"I'm not afraid of dead Twiggy,"

Dru pounced again; Angelus sent her flying back with a slap.

"Go home, schoolgirl,"

Buffy casually looked at her watch.

"Am I keeping you?" It was after five. He could feel the daylight coming, she knew it.

Angelus grabbed her by the neck and shoved her toward the gate. She wheeled back on him with a punch to the temple. He gripped her throat; the fingers of his other hand touched the blood on her face, measuring the wound. It was already healing. She nailed him in the chest. He shoved her again, harder this time.

Drucilla landed on his back. He twisted, catching her by the hair, and stalked away, dragging her.

"Next time, lover," he called behind him.

Buffy walked home, looking at the stake in her hand.