OK, so I posted this once (with Buffy having the wrong eye color), and then again (with her correct eye color) – and then I figured out that if Buffy having brown eyes, the story is better than if she had green ones.  So, yes, I DO know her eyes are green, and yes, I DO realize this story is inaccurate because of her eye color.  But, please, just deal with it.

I don't own Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or anything related. So, pretty, pretty please, don't sue me.



Mud and Chocolate



I see her ever once in a while, the one I love. You know the one. Buffy. But not. The resemblance is striking, her voice immaculate, but even with the physical qualities, I know it's not her. I know that it's that shape- shifting hell-beast which comes to me in the night, talking, touching. The eyes are what always give it away. Buffy's eyes are a deep, warm chocolate with specks of gold, like those cups of hot chocolate Joyce and I would share. The hell- beast's are a disgusting, dirty brown, like mud after acid rain has fallen.

But sometimes, just sometimes, when the pain grows too strong, and every one of my undead muscles are screaming from the constant torture of being strung to a wall, and my crimson blood is running in streams to pool at my feet, yes, just sometimes, I think it's the same person.

My head is down, and all I feel is the soft caress of a silky hand, and a voice so deep and velvety you could swim in it. My hopes would begin to rise, I would begin to think that maybe, just maybe, she had come for me. But then, just as I feel a painful smile alight upon my face, reality crashes down as I my head is jerked up to look into thick, slimy mud surrounded by a beautiful face, and the words it was saying, about Buffy not coming, begin to register.

And I cry.

I try to not, but I felt so sure I was certain that she was there, that she had come to rescue me. But, once again, my hopes have thousands of shards of glass thrust into them. Every day it talks to me, and tells me these things, I say I know she'll come. But she never does. And my argument gets weaker and weaker.

The beast is gone now, though. So I have a rare moment of rest from the constant mental anguish. But it'll be back soon. I just know it in my bones. I can hear the light steps now, the one that is so predatory, like a cat stalking it's prey. The boots are in my sight now, and the beast is standing right in front of me holding a long dagger. It's not talking, just waiting. For what, I don't know. I feel the urge to say something, make some feeble comment on the beast's choice of torture.

But still, it's silent.

Slowly, gentle hands lift my head and I figure that I must be dreaming for in front of me I see nothing but beautiful warm chocolate eyes filled with little golden sparks watching my expression as the dagger is moved to slit my bonds.

I begin to fall, but I couldn't care less.

She slides her arms around me, and helps me to get out of the place where I had been imprisoned for so very long. Barely able to walk, my knees buckling every few steps from misuse, she is practically carrying me. Needing to say something, anything, to express my gratitude, I say the first thing that comes to mind.

"You came."