The room lay in shambles. Furniture was in pieces, strewn about the floor. Bed linens were shredded into long crimson strips of silk and fluttered gently with the night breeze from
the open window. And, perhaps most telling of all, torn bits of drawing paper littered the entire room.

In the middle of the shattered room stood a dark figure, radiating anger and power and the devil's evil. His nostrils flared dangerously and his hands clenched and unclenched at
his side. A stream of useless air hissed from between glistening fangs. He spoke to the empty room.

"She took my picture."

A howl of pure rage split the air.

The moon was gray.

It masked the silver shadow of Angelus, the one with the angelic face, as he padded across the moist grass and stood trembling beneath the Slayer's window. He raised his head
to the roof and a ray of moonlight slanted across his chiseled human features, sparkling in his cold eyes, glinting on his raven hair.

He began to climb.

The Slayer woke. Her gaze went instantly to the sketching that sat propped on a chair in the watery moonlight.

The lovers seemed to sigh and gasp and taunt her.

Rising like a wraith from her bed, the Slayer floated toward the picture, her eyes wide and unblinking.

The lovers on the altar beckoned to her.

Reaching out a tentative hand, Buffy traced the tattoo on Angelus' back with a gentle finger, watching as the sliver of moonlight through the window painted stripes on her skin.

"Come in," she whispered to the picture. "Come into my bedroom."

"Now *that* was easy," said a smooth voice.

He had stepped from his own drawing into the shadows of her room. Buffy's traitorous body betrayed her instantly, her nipples hardening beneath the thin cotton of her
nightclothes.

Angelus noticed, and grinned dangerously.

"And to think, I came here to kill you, not fuck you. I'll have to revise my plan."

She shook her head mutely and began backing up.

He advanced.

And then they were next to the drawing labeled "Tempest", and Angelus studied it. His mouth narrowed into a thin line.

"That's mine," he bit out. "You took it."

"You drew us," Buffy blurted, her eyes darting to the lovers.

Angelus watched her, so fawn-like in the dark. "You like that picture." It was not a question.

Buffy shook her head again. "You're obsessed," she babbled. "Totally crazy, you're stalking me..." Her ramblings trailed off as she realized he was nodding.

Nodding? He was agreeing with her?

"That's right, Buffy Summers," he said easily. "I sure the fuck am. And there's only one way to get rid of an obsession."

"Oh?" Her voice was calm but her eyes were not. "How?"

"Crush it," Angelus snarled, and leapt for her.

Later, the Slayer would not be able to remember some details about their coupling. She would not be able to recall how she had gotten stripped of her flimsy pajamas, only that
she was naked and sprawled wantonly across her own bed. The bedclothes were gone, leaving only the white, virginal fitted sheet, and Buffy dimly realized that the bed
mimicked an altar.

An angel loomed above her, a dark, fallen angel cast from Heaven. An angel with saffron eyes and silver tipped fangs, an angel who haunted her nights and whispered to her
during the days, an angel who had turned into a devil only because he had tried to love her.

She wept, and he laughed his glee.

"More," he urged, while squeezing a pink-crested breast. "Cry more pretty sunshine tears, little Slayer."

She stopped at once, refusing to grant his request, but found herself arching into his hand and whimpering instead.

"Open your legs," the practiced voice coached her. "Do it, little bitch, and pay me for what you stole."

Buffy did, alternating between relief and mortification. Mortified that she was allowing him entry into her body, and relief because of the same thing.

He was so big, and so hard, and felt so much like Angel.

She would make him Angel. To make love to his demon was impossible.

She reached up and drew him down into her, clenching her inner muscles tightly around him, losing herself in her own untruth.

Buffy could see the drawing from where she lay, and she fixated upon it.

She was so snug and tight around his cock that Angelus wanted to croon his pleasure. No wonder Angel's memories of her were so strong.

And she was a hot little kitten, squeezing his shaft for all she was worth with her soft wet core.

He suddenly noticed her watching something over his shoulder, and he turned.

His drawing.

Tempest.

He had drawn them in the exact position they were currently in, and though at the time it had been a sweet fantasy, the reality of it was so much better.

Imagine that, he was fucking the life out of a Slayer.

Angel's Slayer.

The mere thought of it brought his orgasm, and he slammed into her willing body, shaking from head to foot and rolling his eyes back in his head. He could feel his cold come
bathing her walls, and at the last minute he pulled out and gave a final spurt on her stomach.

It was pleasing to him, somehow, to see the Slayer with his semen on her body.

Buffy blinked dry eyes at the dark ceiling.

He had gone, and she was still alive.

Yet another testament to his maniacal fixation with her. Someone less crazed would have killed her.

It was not a comfort.

Buffy raised herself gingerly on one elbow to glance about the room, her sore body protesting at the movement. She was sure he had taken his drawing.

But then again, she wasn't sure of anything, because the drawing still sat propped on the same chair, mocking her.

One of her own stakes was stabbed into the sketching of the lovers, impaling them both.

The End

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