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Super Fantasy

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Merlot doesn’t look a god-damn thing like blood. It’s too purple. Still tastes good, at least when it’s okay to good merlot. We got like six bottles at Trader Joe’s because this airline company had to sell all the wine they had that needed a corkscrew. At least, this is the rumor that the check-out guy told us, and it was suspiciously good wine for a dollar ninety-nine.

“They always say blood looks like wine,” I complained, taking another swig of it. “That’s such bullshit. Look at it. It’s purple. Kinda looks like cranberry juice, but totally not blood.”

“Doesn’t taste like blood, either,” Wes replied, cooking something butter-herby smelling in the kitchen. He swears up and down he’s not trying to domesticate me, but I don’t buy it. I’ve gained like, ten pounds since I moved in. “Blood tastes metallic. Like licking batteries.”

“You licked batteries?” I asked. “Were you brain dead or just suicidal?”

He leaned toward the living room with a vicious smile on his face and I remembered that Wesley’s dad was just as big a fucker as my not-so-dear and very departed daddy. I mean, fuck, who locks a kid under the fucking stairs? For real, not in like, fucking Harry Potter?

“Creative,” he said enigmatically and went back to sauteeing vegetables in butter sauce. I couldn’t help but smile. How did I find myself digging on this man? Maybe because I always wanted a Watcher who loved me? Maybe because once he’d fallen, we were the same kind of people, the kind of people no one loved because we were so fucked up and didn’t deserve sympathy for it, either.

“That’s a fancy English guy word for fucked up, you know that,” I called, pouring myself glass number three of Charles Shaw merlot. “Hey, when did you taste blood?”

“Pretending to be Angel,” Wes responded, putting the veggies aside for the mashed potatoes. I might be in love with Wes for his godly garlic mashed potatoes. “That’s where I met Virginia. They thought I was Angel and gave me fresh blood. So I took a nice slurp and–dear God.”

“That’s disgusting, babe,” I said, relaxing, taking a slug of the wine and listening to my Princess. I thought Wes would hate this shit, cuz hello, could there be a whiter boy than Wesley? But nah. He’s okay down with it. He still prefers his hippie-ass Cat Stevens folk crap, but we’ve got a system where one CD is mine, the next is his, and it works out.

“Yes, yes it was,” Wes agreed. “Who is this again?”

“Princess Superstar,” I said. “Dude, if she comes to town, we have to go. Okay? I’ll even go to like, Blues Traveler, or whatever if you come with me.”

“Okay,” Wes said. “I was going to say that I think she’s interesting. Foul-mouthed as fuck, but there’s something rather arousing about hearing a woman announce that she’s kinkier than pubic hair.”

Oh, he had to go and do that. Every time I started thinking that he was just squeaky-clean good boy Wes, he reminded me that there was definitely some kink to that vanilla exterior. I bounced up, wineglass in hand, and grooved into the kitchen to the beat.

“Mmm, you’re all about that talking dirty, aren’t you?” I asked, tasting the butter sauce. “Jesus, Wes, if you get any better at cooking I’ma have to blow you before dinner out of gratitude.”

He blushed, but he still leaned over and kissed me on the cheek with a smile on his face.

“Well, then, you won’t mind so much when I tell you that you’re dessert, right?” he asked. “You and chocolate-coated strawberries.”

It was my turn to blush, but fuck, you don’t know what that man has done with chocolate-covered strawberries and my hot little body. Angel fuckin’ wishes he had to be as creative as Wes about the sex. Then again, Wes has always had to work for the girls, so he tries to keep ’em happy.

Mission accomplished in my case. I took another swig of wine, smiled happily and licked Wesley’s ear, which almost made him drop the mashed potatoes. So very nice to know I still had the touch, especially considering the chilly reception I’d had at Angel’s since I let it be known that I wasn’t fucking ditching Wesley like the rest of those bitches. I didn’t even want to think about what Angel’s people would say if I told their bitch asses I was fucking Wesley. Regularly and happily, to boot.

“I’m hungry,” I said, licking my lips cheerfully. “Hurry up and get dinner done.”

“Please don’t mess with me,” he said, almost growly. “I’ll spit you out like you was Sunny D.”

Wesley quoting the Princess killed me, so I had to vamoose back to the couch and drink more wine and wonder how I got so lucky. I mean, like, who the fuck would have guessed this would be my post-prison life? Reconnecting with my fucking bastard ex-Watcher and finding out that he was the only non-fuck among all the L.A. people I was counting on to have my back?

Of course, Angel’s fuckin’ kid thinking I was a dirty whore who needed chastisement was pretty much the last straw, because you know, fuck that. His dumb ass didn’t even know how to keep his greasy hair clean and he didn’t even realize that Angel was totally fucking Cordy all the goddamn time. Shit, what did he think all the thumping and “oh Angel” was about? Dumbass little prick.

Then I found out that Wes hadn’t even like, given Connor away like I woulda, he’d been kid-jacked in the park by that bitch Justine and got his throat slit, and that was it. Angel can’t fuckin’ forgive that, Mr. High and Mighty and ignoring the curse cuz of Cordelia’s tight pussy? That’s just bullshit, especially for that asshole kid who locked him in a fuckin box and threw him in the ocean.

And as for Cordelia, whatever. Total bitch anyway.

Plus, when Wes explained he knew some hip-hop because he’d been fuckin’ that hot-ass black guy Gunn, I was pretty pissed off at Gunn and Fred. It was like, okay, let’s keep that little gay secret because you two are feelin’ guilty that you’re not letting Wes play your games because that might be a little too gay. Whatever. They’re both okay–better than Cordelia and Connor–but that was fuckin’ stupid of ’em.

Course, I’ve both been there and done that, and it’s no better when it’s a guy and not a girl like Buffy.

So I went Wesley’s way. Sort of miss having more people around, but I don’t regret it. Wes got real while I was away. He stopped being pansyass British guy with a stick up his butt the size of the San Andreas Fault and starting being bad-ass British guy who finally got what the world was about. I’d be lying if I said the Evil Lawyer Cunt (otherwise known as His Most Recent Ex Lilah, Her Royal Fucking Bitchness) hadn’t helped in that regard.

Of course, that would have been okay if Lilah hadn’t been like, all about giving me intimate details of how Wesley fucked her, but hey, bitch is gone. Took off for Mexico or Japan or something after she tried to betray my boy and the two of us–Wes and me–totally fucked that up for her. Then Wolfram and Hart sort of let her know that if she stayed around, she’d be dog food, and you know, she ran. We won’t see her face again.

Good.

“Dinner is served, madam,” Wes said, waking me up out of all the thinking of bad things. And that was good, because with Wes around, making dinner and doing Watcher things and being willing to fuck me raw at the least request, I didn’t have to think so much about the bad things. Life was, life is, pretty fucking sweet.

“Wicked cool,” I said, setting down my wineglass and jumping up to give him a big ol’ fucking kiss, arms around the neck, my snaky little hips pressing against that big British cock, et cetera et cetera. We steamed up his glasses for a good minute, but damn. Dinner smelled good and I wanted to eat before it got cold. “Can we eat now?”

“I suppose,” he said, taking off his glasses and de-fogging. “Of course, now I keep considering how everything could be microwaved later, but it’s best to eat dinner before dessert.”

“Too fuckin’ right,” I said. “Besides, I promise that I’m going to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before tonight and we can even listen to your CD while you’re doing it.”

He gawped at me and then had to adjust himself, which was so un-Wes that I did a total double take, but it sort of let me know that dinner was going to be torture for him. Yay. There was something about Wes that made me so fucking happy that I couldn’t help but act like a stupid kid. He wanted me even though I was a codependent freak who had beat hell out of him not even five years ago. Maybe he even loved me, even though the idea of him telling me that freaked my shit out even in fantasy, and vice versa.

“Shall we eat?” he asked, and I knew he kinda knew what I was thinking. He was probably thinking the same thing, except fancier and more English. “The food is getting cold.”

“Yeah, let’s eat already so we can get to the screwing,” I said, sitting down in front of a plate.

“What you said,” he replied, sitting down at his plate. “You know I really do have strawberries, right? And cream if we need it? And ice cubes?”

“Uh-huh,” I said, dishing out some potatoes. Life was so good. “I still want dinner first.”

“Damn,” Wes said, hustling to deal himself out some food. “You’ve convinced me that we could warm up dinner.”

“Nope,” I said, getting some of the buttery veggies. “You have to suffer.”

He sighed loudly and got himself something to eat. Men. Wesley. Maybe I did kind of love him, but I mean. Too much to think about, especially when it was like I said–good.

I was okay with good. And I was even more okay with strawberries. The issues, the inevitable confrontations, the future, the love thing, it could all wait.

My man (oh, God, I called him my man! I’m fuckin’ doomed!) and me were living well and after years of not even having that, it was enough. It was more than enough.