You'd like to see him suffer for your fantasy and thrill,
But he fell sick while we made love, he's out there, somewhere, still...
Ooh alright, natural, he's watching from a window up above.
I see, he loves you, I'll bring you closer
But something in my fate says it's not right for me
Tell me am I cursed or am I blessed?
I can't tell, oh yes.
All is well between the breasts of passenger and slave.
- Jeff Buckley's 'Witches Rave'.

He crawled over her, knelt like a fucking Christian to the alter.

My alter.

Buffy's body was never anything short of perfect, of completion. That shining body, writhing in the distance, just that little tiny bit out of reach.

So let's see what Military Boy Scout wants to do with her. See what sick little fantasies he's been too scared to look in the eye cos he still doesn't know precious little Miss Mary Martyr.

And of course, Buffy was such a martyr.

Sadomasochist, really. Sisters of bondage, cos we'd both crave the punishment of the fight. The lust. The kill. Taking hit after crushing hit cos that'd be the only way we'd know it meant something.

She's responding to me now, those hot little hips of hers thrusting into Mr Oblivious. That's what it is, that's what it is. It's all me. All of me in her head telling her to come. I'm fucking with her head, cos she wants me to. Cos she's always wanted me to. Cos that's all she ever wanted. Someone, some lust to overcome her completely, to throw herself into that dark abyss and never have the opportunity to look back.

So he thinks he loves her. Thinks he knows that she returns the favour. God, returns the favour, sounds like services rendered, barter and trade, money under the table, over the table, whatever the fuck it was, it wasn't what he was looking for.

So this worthless little shit thinks he's good enough for her, good enough to hold her lust.

Well fuck him.

It's meaningless, it's worthless, it's meaningless. She doesn't need your god-damned, G.I. Joe arms around her. Doesn't need your weak touch on her skin. Doesn't need your so-called professions of "love".

Cos you can't hold everything that I hold in her.

She's in front of the mirror now. A sanctuary of squeaky white and falling light.

She looks at me with curious eyes, needing to get inside of me. Those beautiful, fathomless eyes that I could spend hours unravelling. And I do have hours. I have eternity. She is mine. And she is more.

So I place my hands across her face, trailing my thumbs over that defiant chin. My fingers trace the Vampire's mark and I feel her pride swell.

It always was like her. Always like her to hurtle into the fray. To want what she shouldn't, to tiptoe around the shallow edges of raw desire just in case she forgot the safety word.

Her hands, my vessel, showing her the needlessness of safety words, of cautionary details, of the fine print and the ones in between. Cold, tiny fingers encompassing the thrill of her flesh. Those bouncing, lickable breasts that I was still denied complete access to.

One hand lingers as the other lazily travels down the length of her abdomen, her breath hitching in wait of the inevitable.

And I take her.

Take her all at once, take her hard and fast.

She stares at me in gasped surprise, edging me onwards, edging me forwards, daring me to make her spill over.

Our gazes lock in the mirror as both sets of thumb and finger twist and pull, twist and pull, an unending cycle, playing to the soundtrack of her lyrical cries.

But God, it's not enough, it's not enough, not until,

"Faith!"

Oh, my name on her lips pulls me under, pulls me over, pulls me with her into that unfamiliar and absolute oblivion.

I should have stayed just to show Mr All American how it's done.

And I could love her. I could be the good little patriotic slayer, the unquestioning slave, if she would just give me this for the rest of it.

But I always knew she'd wake up in the morning.

Wake up in that old crumpled body and figure out what I'd done to it, how I'd corrupted it once more.

And she'll run home. Run home to the safety of picket fences and closed curtains.

She's disgusting. Disgusting because she plays by those age-old rules, disgusting because she's going back to that weakling on drugs, disgusting because she knows what I could have given her.....

She was disgusting. Disgusting and dirty and perverted in all the places that he would never know to look. A disgusting, good fuck.

And that's what she was. A good fuck. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing more, nothing less, nothing more, nothing less, nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

So goodbye, Buffy Summers, enjoy your pretty house and your pretty garden.

Remember me by the bruise that doesn't heal.

END