: Monkey's PawAuthor
: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
, mid-Season Two.Pairing
: Language; implied rape; spoilers for Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered.Distribution
: Please ask first. Please do not screencap this story, save it to hard drives, exchange with others, or translate into other languages without written consent.Feedback
: Con-crit is always welcome; flames are ridiculed and put on display.Disclaimer
: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, lyrics, etc. are the property of their respective owners. Snippets of dialogue may be incorporated from the original canonical episode(s) and belong to their respective authors/creators. The original characters and plot are the property of the author(s). The author(s) is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended, nor should any be inferred. No profit is being made.Summary
: Xander's love spell has horrific ramifications for himself and Buffy.
*Dedicated to realpestilence
, who saw something
in this.* * * * *
She whirled around to face him, her eyes pools of frozen amber. “What is this? You’re two-timing me?”
Inane. Ridiculous. Absurd. This couldn’t be happening.
His fault, all his fault. His fault for blackmailing a girl he had known all his life. His fault for trying to violate his girlfriend’s will. His fault for messing with forces of which he had no understanding. Amy had tried to warn him before this all started, when she was still sane.
There were always consequences. The recent return of Angelus should have served to quash his insistence on resorting to magic, but no. He had been in too much pain, had been too confused, too focused on revenge.
He had been selfish. He deserved this.
It was too late now.
In seconds, Amy had crumpled to the floor and Buffy was on him, not bothering for seduction when force was so much more appealing.
Such small hands she had. How often had he looked at them and marveled at their delicacy, their elegance, their lethality? Now those hands were molesting him, her nails like pirhanas, mercilessly drawing blood from his skin like water from a fountain. Too strong; she was so strong.
He couldn’t fight her.
“You want this,” she grinned. “You always have.”
And he had, but not now and not like this.
Then his shirt was in tatters, and his underwear had been ripped away and shoved into his mouth to silence his whimpers, and she had him in her hand, her fingers a vise, steel encased in silk. He could smell her hand lotion.
Canteloupe and something he couldn’t identify. Death?
He thought of the Hyena, of what it had wanted to take.
He deserved this. It was his fault.
His body was betraying him. He didn’t want this, he didn’t, but his cock wasn’t listening despite the pain and he was shamed by his weakness. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe, and all he could think of was how she would be destroyed once the spell had run its course.
How could this be happening? How was it even possible?
One hand wrapped around his sex and the other wrapped around his throat. His vision became blurry through his tears and then all he saw were pinpricks of light in a sea of black, like that star map which had fascinated he, Willow, and Jesse during the fifth-grade field trip to the observatory.
As she lowered herself onto him, he turned his head, squeezed shut his eyes, and thought only of Cordelia.