Rating: NC-17, like you had to ask
Summary: Set summer after season 5.
Author Notes: Written for FitofPique, as part of the Slashficathon, June-July 2003, assembled by Saussy and _Flaming_June_. FitofPique asked for summer, post-season 5, S/X.
Thanks: A rousing chorus of "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" to those who held mine: _flaming_june, Anna S, Gywnnega, Mustang Sally
Just so we're clear on that.
I hate you every time I see you swaggering up in that fucking coat you wear no matter how hot it gets, hate it that you never sweat, hate your smirking face, your cigarettes-and-leather smell, hate the way you talk and what you talk about, hate the way you look at the people around you like you want to eat them because I know you do want to eat them. I hate the way you drown that hunger in beer. I hate that you're still here, like your suffering matters, like your suffering has any goddamn right to rub up against our suffering, because Buffy loved us and she didn't love you, she never loved you and she never would. She'd never even like you, you sonuvabitch. I hate the way Dawnie lights up when you come into the house, the way she whispers secrets to you like you're just some teddy bear in a motorcycle jacket. I hate it when you're standing next to me with that look and those black clothes and then when your black black eyebrow cocks, you've got me plunging into whole new worlds of disgust and confusion and need.
I might even be holding Anya's hand when you put that whammy on me, but I follow you anyway. I follow you out and down. Into that dim clammy room that smells of clay and decay and how much I hate you. I let you take our clothes off, let you take me in your arms and in your mouth, let you make it all go away for a little while, and Jesus Mary and Joseph I don't hate that.
I don't know how it happened, I don't even like to think about it, that first time, how many weeks ago was that, who fucking cares, it's summer, who counts days or weeks in summer, it's summer and she's dead and nothing is ever going to matter anymore the way it used to, so I can do this, whythefucknot, I always wondered what it would be like, I was always too afraid to find out, but there's nothing to be afraid of anymore because the worst has already happened and anyway they say Dead Men Tell No Tales.
I can lie there face-down in your stupid vampire bed while you dick me long and slow, I can hide my face in the pillow that smells of tobacco and spilled bourbon and let you grind me into the mattress, your skin cool and smooth and dry against my sweaty needy mess of a body. Your big cock filling me up, filling up at least a little of that frozen nowhere I've turned into. Crazy how cold I am inside while the sweat just pours off me. I can somehow believe you really like it when you take deep snuffing breaths of my hot helpless stink. I can go along when you roll me over, when you put my feet in the air like a goddamn girl's, so you can get in really deep. Kiss me at the same time like some fucking Romeo. I can listen when you talk while we're straining together. You say some amazing crap, my friend, but then I guess a lot of us do when our cocks are buried deep in something tight that's rising and falling in perfect rhythm, not too fast, not too slow, just right to go all night, because who'd have thunk it, vamps are good for something in this vale of tears after all.
All that calling me Pet, calling me Sweetheart, telling me I'm a Goddamn Gorgeous Fuck, Hot Piece of Ass, Fucking Glorious Ass, Fucking Hell Harris you're a Marvelous Piece, You're this Shitburg's Best Kept Secret, Ass is a Satin Glove, Love, an Absolute Treasure Chest. I can take your kisses--slow, intent, trancey, and yeah, tender--tender like that look in your eyes when you watch me taking you in, watch me writhe on you, under you, and for a little while it's like we never hated each other at all.
I hate Buffy's death, I hate Buffy's death so much, I hate you for ever having wanted Buffy's death, I hate you for not wanting it anymore, I hate you for trying to prevent it, I hate you for failing. For surviving when she didn't. I hate myself too for being alive when Buffy isn't, okay, yeah, I admit it, I hate everybody who's still alive, well, not Willow, could never hate Willow and aw, man, not gonna think about Will when I'm doing this with you.
I hate you because you're a predator, you're death. Never been a doubt about that, right? You know it. I hate you, and yet somehow when you lie in my arms, when we're both boneless, spent, and I listen with closed eyes to the small idle sounds you make smoking a post-fuck cigarette, the hatred goes out the way the tide goes out . . . I know it's gonna come back, come back stronger than ever, dragging everything with it, because that's what tides do, and you can never hold 'em back.
But while it's out, and stuff lies glistening in the sun that's normally always submerged, stuff like the sheer thrill of jacking you off, watching your cum spurt out on me, then the feel of your cool tongue as you lick it off my belly and then move up to kiss me, that slow thoughtful way you kiss that's like nothing else I've ever had, Jesus you can kiss . . . while the tide's out and I'm out of play, hidden underground in your bed, curled around your cool smooth body, taking a break from all the hate . . . I actually find some peace.