Summary:
Season 6 vignette. Another day with Spike and Buffy
Rating:
R
Disclaimer:
Joss owns’em both and for that we can only be forever
grateful.
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“Asshole!”
she spits. “God, you’re pathetic.”
And
she sees the sun set in his eyes.
Sloe eyes, doe eyes, stupid eyes. She hates those
eyes. Knows she could drown in them at high tide, that they could make her
fall…..
But
she also knows that she flicks the light switch, that with a word she can turn
him from playful and mischievous to angry and resentful, ready to hurt her,
ready to kill. She’s fairly sure, fairly confident, of his self-restraint, but
let’s face it, she’s prepared to take the chance.
She
bats away the hand that still hovers near her arm, ready for her to change her
mind, change her heart. Change her.
“You’re disgusting,” she snorts.
He withdraws the offer and she can see the
clench of the forming fist, the stress grow in his
face.
Some
day he may beat her to death when she does this to him. He just might.
Some
day she might just let him.
But
for now, this is a game and they dance, as they always did. It’s just a whole
new dance now, new steps, a whole new world. Like a chess
player she picks her moves. She predicts with the instincts of a professional
what will be enough to send him cascading into the sort of rage that will leave
her well and truly fucked, but not well and truly dead.
She’s
never played chess. She probably never will.
But
she knows how to play him.
He
grabs her arm, grips it hard, fingers biting into the flesh. His momentum
carries her backwards, crushing her into the wall, jolting her. The jolt
travels from her spine to her stomach, pain to lust. Her eyes flash; daring
him, mocking.
That
usually works too.
She
craves the violence now, the pain. The pinch of metal, the tear
of flesh, the painful rip of clothes torn from her body with savage lust.
She’s as bad as he is now, she constantly berates herself. Worse, because she’s
the one making the choices, degrading herself like
this. She finds it easy to make the excuses, It blocks the pain, the other pain, the pain she can’t think about. If she allows
herself, she knows that it has also created something, something she might
never have felt had she not gone through hell and….
Not
thinking about that. Any of it. Doing is better than thinking.
So she
pulls her punch line, pulls no punches.
“Evil, disgusting thing.” She admires the
distain in her own voice; yes, that was nicely done.
But
she prefers his reaction, as one hand grips her neck and the other her belt.
She writhes against him, making everything a little more heated, a little more
frantic. Yes, please, ready now.
All
they’ve ever done is dance.