Title: Think Not, Not for a Moment Let Your Mind
Author: freak-pudding
Disclaimer: Buffy: The Vampire Slayer and all associated articles are the sole property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No copyright infringement intended.
Summary: There's always one last moment. Chosen
Author's Note: Don't ask! For the love of God, don't ask. Wanna know the reason for the title? Look up Edna St. Vincent-Millay.
"I love you."
She glows then.
He thinks of her in ambers and candied reds, scarlet and gold twined together with the purest ivory under a dark and silent moon. Her silky hair fanned out on a tawny pillow, paled lips parted in the worst of ecstasy, body pliant beneath his warming fingers. She was open to him in those moments, really open, like someone had taken their hands into her chest and pulled her heart out, setting it on display for the whole world. In those moments, he could touch her.
Soft skin like touching clouds, like touching water and fire and ice all at the same time, burning and freezing and breaking his fingers; the taste of her blood so brief in his mouth, so sharp and tangible and perfect.
Eyes of opulent emerald, laughing and spitting and singing and sharing and painted in words and love and hate. The face of the sweetest nymph, taken before her time and torn from beauty. His second princess, hiding in the shadows beneath his fingers and words. His fallen angel, swathed in blood and violence and death like purple and red and black splattered on a canvas of her soul.
Her sweet smile, her stupid puns, her idiotic questions. The hate, the screams, the pain and insults.
"Evil, disgusting—"
"—never be your girl!"
"—hate you—"
"Tell me you love me."
"It's over."
"Stop!"
"Let me help you…
"I believe in you."
"Hold me?"
"I love you."
Oh, sweet ambrosia, purest holy liquid streaming down his throat, settling in his belly to eat him inside out; burn his organs and melt his blood, rend the very flesh from his body.
Oh god oh god oh god it hurts.
Hurts just to look, just to see, just wishes she'd turn away, wishes she'd stop looking, just walk away.
Red silk beneath his fingers as he clutches her shoulder. The creak of leather in the Bronze. Leather skirt gathered around her hips. The feel, the touch of something he can't see. Bright orange and white stripes. Off-white shirt, naughty black lace. No panties. Dark Kevlar. Lavender and heartache. Radioactive green. Grey sweatshirt. Leather jacket, hateful face. Blue bathrobe.
He comes back then. The walls are caving, the city's burning, and she's not leaving.
He wants this to last forever. Sure, their hands are burning, but he's still touching her. And in that one moment, she's his.
"Ask me again why I could never love you!"
A tear threatens to fall, but he bites it all back.
All of it burning, tearing, screaming, hurting, searing, shrieking, burning burning burning—
"No, you don't. But thanks for sayin' it."