Title: Job Satisfaction

Fandom: BtVS

Characters: Anya

Rating: NC-17 for violence

Summary: Anya has a vengeance gig against a rapist

Note: Written for a prompt at open_on_sunday: breakfast in bed

Note: There's a post over on feministe, a href=".us/blog/archives/2010/05/10/the-roman-polanski-humanitarian-award-ilya-trushevsky-other-recipients/"here/a about Ilya Trushevsky, Roman Polanski, and other famous men who are allowed to get away with rape because they're talented. As if that gives them free passes to be monsters. Pissed me off enough that I wrote this in response.

Date: 10 May 2010

Anya gazed about the room. Faux leopard sheets were scrunched up around him on a circular bed. He'd hung pictures of himself on each wall. Looking up at the mirror on the ceiling, she wondered if he'd appreciate the show. She doubted he'd even look at all.

Pulling the sheets off wasn't enough to wake him up. She ran a finger up his torso until his eyes blinked wearily open. They were red and went with the alcohol on his breath.

"So there's you: famous artist; rich; powerful," she said as she sat on his striped leather couch.

"Who're you?" he mumbled. "Not pretty enough to have brought you home. Plain Jane."

"And then there's June Miller." He looked slightly more alert when she mentioned the name but of course he would. It was a tremendous scandal. "You raped her. Everybody knows. They think your talent excuses you but she knew how to get vengeance. She knew how to call on me."

He sat up. While he did have what was called an artistic temperament, he didn't have an artistic build. He loomed over her, even from five feet away. "What do you think you can do about it, little girl?"

"She ordered breakfast in bed."

He started laughing. "What? You're going to blowjob me until I cry uncle?"

Cords whipped out of nowhere. They wrapped around his wrists and ankles, pulling him down until he was spread-eagled. He heard a snapping noise and then a doll crawled up onto the bed. It stopped on the edge, about a foot from his torso.

"She'd just seen Barbarella," Anya casually mentioned. He jerked his head, trying to think. What was it about Barbarella and dolls? "She had a very specific fantasy about how you should die. It's really quite creative. I'm looking forward to seeing how it pans out."

The doll's mouth snapped open and then shut again. It had very sharp teeth. He remembered.

"No," he yelled. "You can't. The police, they'll catch you. Look babe, I can give you anything..."

"Blah, blah, blah," Anya said. The doll started crawling towards him, it's mouth snapping open and shut as it moved.

"Help," he shouted. "Somebody, help."

Anya sighed. "As if I'm going to let anybody hear you."

The doll bit into him. He screamed. Pulling back a bloody mouth, it chewed down his flesh. It bit again. "Please. Stop it, please."

Anya picked up the doll. Ignoring the tears and snot running down his face, she said, "You're quite right. That's certainly not where we want to start." She placed the doll between his legs. It started crawling. When he let out a high-pitched shriek, five more dolls crawled onto the bed.

By the time they were done with him, Anya was humming a jaunty tune. Taking one last look at the pile of meat and bones on the bed, she said to herself, "That's one job well done."