Dream Sequence II – Dance Solo
part two

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"No games, lover," he assured her, picking up her cup and saucer with one hand, wrapping his other arm around her waist. "I just want you." She wasn’t sure if she allowed herself to be half-dragged to his table because she was still worried about the vampires interspersed amongst the gradually thinning crowd of young people, or if it was because she was too drained, emotionally, by his psychological and sensual warfare to put up a fight. Still, she ended up at a table in a dark corner of the Bronze, with Angel seated on a couch, and she herself pulled unresisting onto his lap.

His body cushioned her, surrounded her, supported her. Her head rested on the crook of his shoulder as if she had been specifically designed to fit into his lap. Maybe her patrol hadn’t been as successful as she’d thought. Maybe she had died, and this was hell. She shivered, suddenly chilled. Instantly, he draped her coat over her, then reached for her still-warm mocha, holding it to her lips. Buffy looked into his eyes, wishing she could hate him, as she took more mouthfuls of the beverage. His arm was firm around her back, holding her close, his lover-like attentions calculated to make her long for her own Angel, to make her believe that Angelus could be what she so desperately wanted. Finished with the mocha, she looked into his eyes, hoping to find the difference she had clung to the night before.

They were as cold as she’d needed them to be. Buffy sighed in relief --let him believe it was in surrender--and put her head back down on his shoulder. She resettled against him as he put her cup back on the table, and moved his other arm around her, so that she was held close against his unbeating heart. Buffy had seen his desire for her in his eyes, but she'd seen more. He hadn't lied when he said he wanted her in his bed forever. He might even have thought he meant it when he said he wanted only Buffy in his bed. But while that was unquestionably true for Angel, she couldn't believe it was true for Angelus. He had been obsessed with Dru when he changed her...and had given her to Spike, not long after. His protestations of fidelity and his gentleness with Buffy now were simply weapons in the newest battle he was waging; insidious, devastating weapons in a brutally tender war. Buffy looked out toward the main room of the Bronze. The crowd was thin, but it was there. The Bronze wouldn't close before 2:00 a.m. She might be in for a long haul. Wonderful. Well, she had wanted something to tire her out so she could get some sleep in her violated bed. By the time Angelus let her go, she would be absolutely exhausted.

If Angelus let her go…

Another slow song came on, but the demon holding her wasn't interested in dancing to this one. Instead, one of his hands moved along her back, caressing her through the leather of her jacket. Joy. More sensual torture. She didn't try to stop him, though. No sense letting him know how his imitation of Angel got to her. His hand moved gradually lower, from her back to the curve of her hip, to her thigh. And then he slipped his hand beneath the edge of her jacket.

Angelus was touching the skin of her leg through the minimal shielding of her stockings, and it felt so good, she wanted to weep. He caressed and soothed her flesh, even as he abraded her heart. The intrusive hand traveled farther up her thigh, skimming now under the hem of her skirt. Buffy stiffened, but the arm around her back held her still.

"Just relax, lover," he said.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" she demanded, raising her head to meet his eyes, but keeping her voice low. His eyes were no longer quite as cold. Heated lust had replaced calculation. Buffy's heart began to race. He was all too dangerous like this.

"I told you last night that you were too much of a virgin for my taste," he reminded her. "This is another lesson. Public sex, Buff."

"What!" she said, shocked.

"You have no idea how much fun you are going to have," he told her. "But I'm going to teach you how the need to pretend that nothing unusual is happening, the need to be quiet, and the knowledge that you are doing something forbidden under the noses of a roomful of people who have no idea what you are up to, can make you hotter than you have ever been in your life."

"I think that's a lesson I could do without," she said, clamping her thighs together, hard, against his traveling hand, trapping it before it could reach dangerous territory.

"Did you forget what's at risk, lover?" he reminded her, his voice velvet, but the steel beneath obvious. Buffy shivered. His eyes had gone cold again. In that moment, she knew he would have his minions kill everyone in that room if she didn't let him do what he wanted with her…to her. Reluctantly, she eased her thighs apart, allowing him access to what lay hidden at their juncture.

"Good girl," he said, as his strong, skilled fingers slipped upward, pressing, through a thin layer of nylon and another of Lycra, her intimate flesh. A tiny sigh escaped her. Angelus smiled, and then he bent to her mouth.

There was, apparently, quite a bit of her heart left for him to tear, and all of it was aching, now. Just so, had Angel kissed her, with just this mix of hunger and fire and reverence. As if she were a goddess to whom he owed fealty and his lips upon hers were an act of both prayer and supplication. Oh, God! How strong was she supposed to be? How much was she supposed to endure when her very soul cried out to her lost Angel? She couldn't stop what Angelus was doing without risking a lot of lives. Why not take the pittance of pleasure this would bring her? Why not let herself forget, for just a few minutes…? With a helpless moan, Buffy surrendered to that kiss, letting her lips part beneath his, accepting the invasion of his tongue, entwining it with her own. Her arms crept upward, her hands tangling in his hair, pressing him more deeply into the kiss.

And now, the caressing stroke of his hand between her thighs was not something to be avoided, but something to be sought out, and savored. Buffy wriggled into his lap, allowing him greater access. His hand found the waistband of her panty hose and panties, and slid beneath them.

His fingers brushed through the tight curls, finding the seat of her pleasure, flicking gently over it. She drenched his fingers with her longing. He growled approval into her mouth. One finger found the hot, wet core of her and ruthlessly pushed inside. She clamped down around it, shuddering. She needed to break the kiss for air. He wouldn't let her. She grew faint, yielding further into his arms, her hands slipping from his hair to settle on his shoulders. He was right. She was aware of the people around them, of the minimal concealment of the coat draped over her body, hiding the action of his hands. They could be discovered any moment. She didn't care. He broke the kiss at last, and she gasped for air. Hesitantly, she glanced behind her at the crowd.

"No one sees. No one knows," Angelus whispered into her ear. Then his tongue swept the shell of her ear, making her shiver anew, while a second finger slid into her liquescent depths. He knew where to touch her, and how. He knew secrets of her body she herself had yet to discover. He exploited them ruthlessly. Buffy continued to wriggle, abetting the movement of his clever fingers. "That's right baby," he crooned, "dance for me." He brought his mouth back to hers for another breath-stealing kiss.

Hot pleasure coiled inside her, and he built it with cold skill. She began to whimper, her breath coming in short gasps, but it didn't matter because his mouth was on hers, swallowing the cries and no one would hear, no one would know, no one would see more than a heavy make-out session going on, something fairly typical for the Bronze.

His fingers stretched her, played her, pleasured her, finding nerve endings that, sensitized by what he had done to her the night before, hungered for what he did now. And then his thumb flicked once more, with the greatest delicacy, over the swollen bud of her clit. Buffy wailed into Angel's mouth, which opened further for her, his tongue pulling hers into the cool reaches of his mouth, battling with hers there as he swallowed her cries like the tribute they were. Buffy convulsed around his fingers, clutching his shoulders, her whole body shaken by a shock wave of climax. At that moment, had her coat fallen to the floor, and revealed her wanton behavior to every curious eye, she would not have cared. At that moment, had he chosen to drain her of her blood and her life, she would have yielded both.

But she would not, even at that moment, have allowed herself to drink from him, have turned herself into his partner in bloodletting. She retained just enough sense of herself for that. And somehow, he knew. Angelus broke their kiss, and his gaze locked onto her own. His eyes were savage, and she was afraid he was going to lose it, vamping out right then and there…with his fingers still working inside her, not easing her down from the recently scaled peak, but forcing her to make the climb again.

"You will come to me," he told her softly, forcing a third finger deep inside her, increasing what was already nearly unbearable pleasure.

"Never," she told him, just as she shattered again. Her hungry sheath clamped around his fingers as she shook with release. She kissed him, sucking his tongue back into her own mouth, greedy for every taste of him, desperate to hold as much of Angel inside herself as she could. As if he were the rain, and she the desert, and she must hoard him against the long season of deprivation. She was shaking, rocked anew by incredible sensation, her body responsive to his slightest touch. It went on and on, his fingers ruthless in their torment of her flesh, climax after climax jarring through her, giving her no rest, no peace, no escape.

"You're already mine," he broke the kiss long enough to tell her, then kissed her again.

"No," she denied. But he ignored her, listening to the yielding wetness of her flesh rather than the soft protest of her voice. One more orgasm. One more peak. One more convulsion of white-hot pleasure that had her begging for a demon's touch, and a monster's caress. He drew it out, demanding every nuance from her, demanding that she push past the limits she believed she had, and yield all to him. Helpless, she did, giving him one more wailing, supplicant cry to devour, shaking, shaking in his arms as if the world were ending and only he could hold her together through the storm.

Eventually, she lay exhausted, draped across him, his fingers still inside her, but no longer moving. He nuzzled her hair, dropping tender kisses along her brow, before he eased his hand from her body, and smoothed down the hem of her skirt. He brought his hand up, sticky with her essence, and inhaled the scent like the bouquet of a fine wine. Humiliation crept across her now that pleasure was done.

"You dance divinely, Miss Summers," he smirked, slowly sucking the taste of her from his fingers. "And you taste…good enough to eat."

"Go to hell," she said tiredly.

"Not without you Buff," he returned. "Never without you." Suddenly, he pushed her upright, so that she was sitting under her own power. He pulled her coat off her body, and began to work her arms into the sleeves.

"What are…" she began.

"Dance is over," he growled. "Leave before I change my mind." She did not hesitate. She didn't know why he had decided her torture was over for the evening, but she wasn't going to challenge him, now. At least not about that. She scooted off his lap, forcing her unsteady legs to lock and hold her upright, adjusting the coat as she did so.

"I'll be glad to leave. As soon as you call off your boys." He glared at her, but again, his strange mood held. He caught the eye of one of his lieutenants, gave a signal. Within a few minutes, the Bronze was vampire-free once more…except for the one vampire before her.

She said nothing further, merely nodded, turned and left. With luck, she could still catch up to some stragglers, and get in a few stakings…

She dusted a few who hadn't been quick enough to get away from her, but it did nothing to sooth the turmoil inside her. There was no longer any point in avoiding the inevitable. She went home, stealthily entering the house so as not to wake her mother…only to find a light on in the kitchen and a note taped to the fridge. Buffy's Aunt Carol had called. She had flown in from the Midwest for a conference, replacing another company rep at the last minute. Joyce was going out to LA, dinner was in the fridge, Joyce would be home tomorrow night. Buffy sighed in relief. Angel's access to her house made Joyce a target. Buffy was grateful that she was out of harm's way for at least tonight. Not that she thought Angel would come anywhere near Revello Drive, now. He'd had his fun. Still, one less worry for Buffy. She ignored dinner, and headed for bed.

Buffy was as exhausted as she had hoped she would be, but that didn't help. She headed to her closet, reached for a nightgown, rather than her sleep-shirt from the night before. In the bathroom, she made quick work of cleaning up and changing for bed. She wanted a shower, wanted to wash from her thighs the reminder of how very quickly her own body betrayed her, but that would simply have to wait for morning. Buffy left her clothes on the hook behind her bathroom door, and returned to her bedroom. She pulled down the covers, and hesitated for a moment. But she realized the futility, and got into the bed.

The sheets smelled of him, of her lost Angel. The tears started, then, the ones she had held back all evening. Slow, corrosive, helpless, pointless tears. Buffy turned her head into the pillow, clutching it to her as she wept. It hurt so much.

What am I being punished for? she had asked Jenny Calendar, when she had first learned why Angel had changed, when she had first been told about the cruel twist to the curse. She still didn't know. What had she done so wrong in her life, what sin had she committed, that she was condemned not only to risk her life night after night, in an unending battle against evil which she knew some day she would lose, but that the one source of comfort given to her, her love for Angel, should be turned into her deepest source of pain? There was no one she could ask, no one she could turn to. Her friends knew she was hurting over being the cause of Angel's losing his soul, but she could not bring herself to tell them the latest twist in her personal descent into hell. Sobs wracked her, tearing through her body, as she gave in to her grief. What am I being punished for? she wondered again.

"Aw, crying because I didn't give you enough, lover? You should have known I wouldn't let you down."

Buffy gasped, sitting up, her tears stopped by sudden terror. Angelus was standing at the foot of her bed, smirking down at her. A glance showed the window she had closed and locked forced open. She should have heard him come in! No time to wonder why she hadn't. Buffy rolled away from him, off the bed, coming to her feet in combat position, a stake held before her.

"Get. Gone," she said. He laughed, making no move to engage her in a fight, merely standing there regarding her.

"Don't say things you don't mean, lover. You don't want me to go, you want me to come. Preferably, while you do."

"I want you as far from me as you can get," she said, tightening her grip on the stake. "Preferably, in another dimension. Like, say, hell?"

"I've told you. I won't go there without you."

"Come any closer and I'll send you on your--" His right leg snapped toward her in a sudden, deadly, perfectly aimed kick that sent the stake flying from her hand. An instant later she was struggling beneath him on the floor...until his mouth came down on hers again and his pelvis ground into her hips. His hands were locked around her wrists, holding them to the floor on either side of her head. His greater weight, his vampirically enhanced strength overmatching her. She was the Slayer, she was supposed to be a match for any vampire. Why wasn't she a match for him? Or maybe, the problem was that she matched him all too well. She felt the tears begin to start again, and her struggles lessened. She still couldn't fight him.

"I'm coming closer, baby," he warned her between punishing kisses, "I'm coming all the way inside."

"No," she denied, turning her head away. "No." He didn't bother arguing. Instead, he shifted, bringing both of her tiny wrists together in one of his large hands, using the other to snake between their bodies, into the neckline of her nightgown. He ripped downward, neckline to hem, and pushed the edges away, baring her golden body to his touch.

His mouth was on her own with punishing force, when his free hand slid with aching slowness across her breasts. He didn't squeeze or paw; maybe if he had handled her brutally, she could have fought him. But the caress was as gentle as anything Angel had ever offered her, and what little struggle was left in her died away.

As she went still beneath him, Angelus ended the kiss. He raised himself up, contemplating the beauty beneath him. Her eyes were closed, tears slipping beneath the lids. The golden splendor of her hair was spilled across the rug, the golden glory of her flesh trembled under his caress. He had never seen anything more beautiful in his life or unlife than Buffy Summers. The demon in him longed to conquer that beauty, to subvert it, to turn it to evil. He would have her compliance. He would! She could not keep him out of her house. He would simply spend every night ravishing her until she yielded to him, until she willingly joined him. He would kill all of her friends, her ineffectual watcher, her oblivious mother, until there was no one she could turn to, until only he existed for her. It wouldn't affect her as it had Drusilla, he knew that now. But it would tear at her heart, weaken her resolve. She would blame herself for every death, every torment, because she was the one who had insisted they make love, she was the one who had released the hold of his soul on his body, unleashing the demon within.

That ultimate victory would come in time. But for now, the demon wanted to be sheathed within her. When he forced her, he strengthened her resolve. So he became tender, kissing her differently, using light, sweet kisses, adoring her mouth with his lips. She whimpered slightly. He had hours for this. There was no rush. He took his time, his kisses languorous, tempting, ultimately eliciting an unwilling response.

Angel's kisses were on her lips, she could taste Angel, breath in the scent of him, his touch on her body soothing the ache in her soul. Illusion, she knew. Danger, all too probably. But it no longer mattered. Because it was becoming clear to her, now. All Slayers died, sooner or later, at the hands of the vampires they fought. Sooner or later one came along who was just a bit quicker, or stronger, or luckier than the others, the Slayer died, and the next one was called. She would never defeat Angelus. She wasn't meant to. She knew, now, what her destiny was, what it had always been: she had been born to die in Angel's arms. He would kill her, and another would be called, someone with the strength to kill Angelus and protect Buffy's friends. Someone, maybe Kendra, to carry on the fight. While Buffy's spirit rested, at last, in the aether, and if there were any mercy in the world, it would rest joined with Angel's…

Angelus sensed the change in her. Not merely the end of the struggle, but the beginning of capitulation. Her mouth opened beneath his, her thighs parted to accept him, everything in her softened, yielded, surrendered. He groaned into her mouth. An instant later, he stood, pulling her to her feet. She looked at him, her hazel eyes showing confusion. He said nothing, merely reached to pull the scraps of her nightgown from her body, then lift her in his arms, carrying her the few feet to the bed, where he settled her against the cushions.

She still made no struggle. He wondered briefly why not, but decided it didn't matter. Her tears had stopped. She lay with her hair spread across the pillows like the sun across the heavens and regarded him solemnly. He made quick work of his own clothing and joined her in the bed.

She held out her arms to him.

He almost suspected a trap, but something inside him, something he didn't choose to examine, didn't care.

He went into her arms and she lifted her face for his kiss and her mouth was like honey, like nectar, richer than blood, the taste of her tongue, the sweet recesses of her mouth all of her was delicious fare, a banquet of delights, his for the taking.

He took her with patience, with skill, with power. He drove into her tight sheath, her body wet with her need of him, and began to move slowly inside her. Her strong, supple, Slayer's legs lifted, wrapped around his waist, as she rocked her hips up to meet each languid, deliberate thrust. Her arms tightened around him, holding him close, and for neither of them was it close enough. They did not speak, they did not exchange love words. He did not threaten, and she did not defy. What was between them was too intense, too overpowering, too consuming, for mere words.

He was inside her, her Angel, and death was not too high a price to pay for having him there. When you kiss me, I want to die, she had told him once. Because she had thought that nothing could be better than his kisses. In truth, nothing was better than the feel of him within her. Without him, she was empty, aching, lost. The truth was that if she couldn't have him, Buffy didn't want to live. But he was with her now, completing her. She was whole. And that it was a demon in his flesh no longer mattered. Angel or Angelus, she was his. As he moved inside her, exquisite pleasure flooded every nerve in her body. She tightened her legs around him, trying to get closer, trying to take him deeper, trying to get through the barriers of flesh and bone and blood until they were joined as completely as they were meant to be.

Her body gloved him as if her very flesh had been designed with his in mind. Of the dozens of women Angel had seduced, the thousands Angelus had taken, none, not one, not any had ever fit around him as perfectly as Buffy Summers. And none, not one, not any, whether high-born virgin, or skilled whore, or practiced vampire wanton had ever given him the pleasure he found each time he took her. Each. And every. Time.

No wonder Angel had lost his soul to her…

Angelus pushed away the thought, concentrating instead on the silk-wet feel of her around his hungry cock. He drove deeper. It wasn't deep enough. He began to move more quickly, and mewling, she met him. It wasn't fast enough. They were skin to skin, his body beginning to pound into hers and it wasn't enough, it could never be enough, it would only be enough if he died inside her, died with her, if he were eternally part of her as she was eternally part of him…

Pleasure coiled inside her, tight, delicious pleasure. Guilt had long since fled, when she had accepted the rightness of her destiny. Now, she accepted the burgeoning ecstasy only Angel's touch had ever brought, could ever bring her. She was going to die in his arms and she was deeply grateful that there was enough mercy in the world for that small blessing, that she would die with him eternally a part of her…

His movements grew quicker, more powerful. A normal human woman would have been bruised by the force with which he took her; even a vampiress might have had trouble keeping pace with his demands. But Buffy craved the force and the power, meeting him, her little heels drumming against his back, demanding more. She was, indeed, his mate. Angel or Angelus, it didn't matter. She was his. He drove harder inside her, her breathless cries all the signal he needed to tell him what felt good to her, how close she was to completion. He drove himself into her relentlessly, determined to have her final surrender. The rippling of her silken walls closing around his iron-hard cock told him he would get it. With a roar Angelus spilled inside her, and the rush of his cold essence, the feel of him losing control in her arms was enough to send her over the edge. She came, hard, her muscles clamping around him, and suddenly, she gave him the one thing, that, even though he had demanded it of her, he had never really expected she would yield. And that yielding shook him to his demonic soul.

Buffy lifted her head from the pillow, flinging aside her hair, baring her neck to him. He vamped instantly, unable to resist the offer, his fangs breaking skin, puncturing vein until the hot liquor of her life's blood flooded his mouth and he could drink her down.

He was in her body and her blood and had long since been in her soul and she was in rapture, in ecstasy, in a climax so deep and consuming that it would never end, she never wanted it to end, this was the death she wanted, the death she craved. Buffy clung to her lover, utterly his.

Angelus sensed her surrender, and triumph flooded him. She was his! Still pumping inside her, still drawing out her release, he stopped drinking, slashing his own wrist with his fangs. He held it to her mouth…and she turned her head away.

Anger surfaced, but was washed away by lust. It didn't matter that she wasn't ready to join him tonight. Soon, she would be. He continued to thrust into her as the last of his climax ebbed away, and the final contractions of her sugared walls gripped him.

For long moments afterward, they lay locked together on the bed, the orgasm they had shared too intense, too draining, for them to move. He recovered first, rising up to look down on her. Her mouth was swollen by his kisses, her cheeks were flushed, her hazel eyes, more green than brown, right now, were slumberous with satiation. He kissed her, then withdrew. He freed himself from her embrace, stood, and began pulling on his clothing. She sat up, watching him.

"Why aren't I dead?" she asked softly, as if she were asking, What time is it?

"Buffy, Buffy, Buffy," he said sitting at the foot of her bed to pull on his socks and shoes. "The answer to that should be obvious. You aren't dead because I don't want you dead. I want you to join me. Willingly."

She had known that, really. The idea of dying in his arms was one more dream that would never be realized. She pushed the pain of the thought away.

"I will never willingly become what you want me to become," she told him. He chuckled.

"You can't keep me out of your bed, lover. Sooner or later, you will see." He turned and pulled her into his arms again, for another devouring kiss. "This is the only way it can end for us. We were meant to be together, Buffy. My soul drew you toward me, but you were born for me. You will come to me. Sooner or later, you will come."

She returned his kisses, but said nothing in reply. Another punishing kiss and he left her, vanishing out her window and into the night. Buffy settled back against the bed, oddly calm.

She would never go to him, never join him in living death. But the duty of killing this particular vampire would not fall to any other Slayer. If Buffy had been born to die in Angel's arms, something had gone wrong with the plan. The only thing left her was to somehow gather the strength to fulfill her sacred duty, plunging a stake through his heart.

She wasn't sure she could survive doing that. And as long as he had entrée to her house, she wasn't sure she could gather the strength. A spell to reverse the invitation was now imperative. Another bitter truth had been revealed to her tonight; it wasn't only Angel's love for her that had survived the transition to Angelus, it was her love for him, as well.

She would always love Angel, and Angelus was part of that, the demon that had always been part of her lover. She could not keep him out of her heart. Her home and her bed and her body were another matter, must be another matter. She needed to be strong, needed to kill him, needed to keep the innocents under her protection safe from his whimsical, deadly predation.

If only she had known about the curse. If only she hadn't forced him to make love to her when he had wanted to wait. Of course she didn't deserve the grace of dying in his arms. In the end, all of this was her fault…

Aching, beyond thought at last, and beyond tears as well, she closed her eyes and slept…

Sort of the End

There's more in the epilogue, but it is, I warn you PURE SAP!

Written for B/A Shippers

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