All About Spike

His Skin Should be Blades
By Lesley

Companion Piece to Taste of Heaven
SPOILERS: Dead Things to As You Were.
FEEDBACK: slayerdudette@lineone.net Gratefully received, much appreciated, and given a loving home.
RATING: PG13
DISCLAIMER: Not mine the characters belong to Joss.
ANGST WARNING: Buffy is in a Dark Place - MN told us so, honest guv. Some Dark Themes.



His skin should be blades, hard, each touch sharp, too bright, cutting like his words. It should cut my skin with each caress. It should be ugly like my axe, not have the shining beauty of my katana. It should be ugly, like a beast, harsh and rough. The skin of a monster should burn me. It doesn't, yet I burn.

His skin is so smooth. When he can't see my face I can look. I look for the flaws. I've always seen his so clearly. There must be flaws to his skin, but I can't see it. It's so pale, and strangely delicate in its purity. Satin smooth like mom's comforter. Wrapped around me, it's my only comfort right now. I should rend it. Tear it to shreds with my nails. Destroy its beauty. Destroy its power over me. I can't. The blood would pour red over white skin. Pure red and white beauty I've already inflicted. It doesn't work I know that.

The back of a monster has plates, bony armour against the hunter. Sharp spikes thrust from the backs of monsters. They pierce and rend, tearing me apart. His doesn't. It sweeps in a smooth curve, flexing only to pleasure or help. Yet he still tears me apart.

The eyes of a monster freeze, burn, penetrate and destroy. I can't look in his eyes. They see too much.

His eyes are closed in sleep. I'm safe from his eyes when he's asleep. I can study his lashes; so thick, so beautiful. Angels would kill for such eyelashes. Cosmetics companies make big bucks from people looking for lashes like those. They caress my skin as he kisses every inch. I love his lashes. They brand me. I should tear out each one. That would stop that, but the marks would remain.

The lips of a monster have blood and bile dripping from them. Sharp fangs show in a foul grin.

His lips are so soft. I could nibble on his bottom lip for hours. I have. I should bite it off. I've seen his lips with blood dripping from them. The fangs have been at my neck. The bile has said so many hurtful things to me, and my friends. If those fangs would only bury themselves in my throat I'd be free. He won't. It's been my lips that have had his blood on them, not his. Dracula would be so proud.

The hair of a monster looks cold, hard, deadly. It is. It's blinding.

His hair is so soft. It shouldn't be. It's fried with bleach, and ruthlessly controlled with more gel than Angel uses. I can barely get my fingers through it sometimes. But when I can it's silk. It sweeps over every part of me. It does things to me I thought impossible. When he's asleep I can play with it. It curves and kinks, just like him. It's soft, yet made to look harsh. I love his hair. I should take scissors to it, cut it off, save myself. I can't.

I can't love the monster; yet he is the man. It's killing me.

I shouldn't want this. I can't have this. I can't look at him when he's awake. I can't let him see. I made that mistake once, in a falling house. I can't do it again. I made this mistake before. I know the story. I can't let it be. I have to destroy this. I have to destroy him, or there'll be nothing left of me. I know I should do this. I know I have to do this. I should, but I can't. I need this. I need him. I'm weak.

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