I grab him roughly, gnawing at his lip and scratching my nails down his abdomen. Throwing back my head, I moan, mouth open wide, eyes squeezed shut.

I feel like an animal, wild and primitive. Wanting, taking, having. All because I said yes. Somewhere inside I’d said yes. I’d unleashed the beast.

I clutch desperately at his flesh, wanting to fall into him, lose myself to the sensation. I am starved for the mind-blowing waves of pleasure to crash over me, into me, destroying my ability to think and feel beyond this bliss.

Destroy me. Make me your burning ground. Pour all your violence and darkness into me. Body, heart and soul. Swallow me whole. Oblivion is my new heaven.

Yes, do it. Do it now.

I am addicted.

Yes please! Again. Harder. Deeper. More. Now.

Now.

My vicious, internal snarl plays as a faint, disgusted curl of the lip when he starts spouting words of love. I want to hit him, silence him with my fists, bruise his pretty mouth.

Shut up, Spike. This isn’t about love. Why can’t he see it’s not about love?

Shut up and fuck me till I can’t think anymore. Till I can’t feel. Fuck me so I forget. Fuck me so I deserve the way I hate myself. So I’m ugly inside and out. Bring me low.

I am animal. Hear me roar. And scratch and claw and devour. Devourer of flesh. Cold flesh that is hard and oh, so right because it’s oh, so wrong.

Fuck me.

Make it hurt. Make it last. Make me more than an empty shell of what I once was. Make me less than this nothingness. Take me deep into the dark if I can’t be back in the light. Make me pure again.

Make me Buffy.

I gasp.

No, not her. I don’t want to be her again. It hurts too much.

Make me new and hard and dark. Make me deep black.

I don’t want to care anymore. Not when nothing I do makes a difference.

Make me not care.

Please. Oh please, make me not care anymore.

Make me not-Buffy.

Please, Spike.




…please.