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DISCLAIMER: Not for the faint of heart. Adult themes & violence.



Malice. Hot. Seething. So familiar and welcome that Shasa did not hesitate in finishing her cup of tea. It roiled and settled in her gut comfortably, as if coming home to a familiar and beloved old home.

The table shifted.

"I can't wait to undo you. Don't take this away from me."

A woman. Short clipped hair, black, clung to her jawline. Angry eyes. A tension around her mouth. Shasa knew without really understanding that the woman she saw was herself. It didn't make sense, it didn't make sense, it didn't make sense and yet she knew without question that it was so.

"How touching. Brought together by ******** suffering. And here I thought you'd be good at suffering torture alone without needing other people as a crutch, given your history. Did you get lazy? I'm going to have to disappoint you of course. But it's not going to be going off the rails and ruining the game that does it. It's just going to be me winning."

A man. Scarred and beautiful in a wild sort of way. Red hair, snapping eyes. Shasa did not recognize this man, but she must know him somehow?

"You've suffered too, haven't you?" Her voice was soft, eerie. "We're so much alike, aren't we? We've suffered so much loss." Those slender fingers continued back towards his crown, slowly, softly. "It's no wonder you hate women so passionately, Rep. A mother who never loved you enough to hold tight," her fingers tightened in his hair, nails digging into his scalp as she fisted her fingers in those fiery red depths, "to her existence. Who was too weak to keep living."

She gave a sharp tug, intent on pulling his head back.

"Do you want to talk about this?" Her expression turned ugly, monstrous. "Shall we crawl inside of one another, discuss these things? Lay each other bare, here and now?" She pressed closer, teeth bared as she fought the urge to sink them into his neck, his jaw, his lips. "I want to be under your skin so badly, Rep. I want to know what makes you tick, and if you insist," she let into the urge, applied her teeth, grazed them along his ear, "on bringing up topics better left buried... who am I to deny you."

He had her in his hands, fingers digging. Shasa could nearly feel the pain of his rough fingertips at her hips.

"My only ******** loss was ever making the mistake to trust women in the first place when you are all ******** alike. Every last one of you. No man would ever ******** waste his time. You would know all about weakness. You embody it. So dig. You will never know me."

So much hate. So much destruction. So much power and rage in turn, pulsing between the two figures in the memory.

"I'm nothing like the b***h that whelped you, William. I've never, ever hidden from you. I seek you out - I thrive on your hate. Weakness?"

Her fingers tightened in his soft, long hair.

"There is nothing - nothing - weak about me. You should know better than that. And we both know I don't have to dig - because I know you, Rep. I know you too well."

She dipped her head, pressed her lips to the crescent-scars that bracketed his neck, pulling away quickly. She could still remember the way those teeth felt against her lips - and she would never forget it. The scar she bore would be a constant reminder. Flirting with a toothsome, ravenous beast. One had to be careful, fleeting.

"You," she released his hair, ready to fight back if he came at her with his teeth, "are the weak one. Do I scare you, Rep? No," she pressed down slightly against him, a sick smile on her lips, "I don't think that's quite the right word for it, now is it?"

Shasa could only watch, helpless to what was playing out before her.

"That b***h was a paid whore, and yet she wasn't half as depraved as you. You are everything I hate about women. You say there's nothing weak about you. But there is. There will always ******** be. There was that crack, that ******** hairline break that shattered you like so much glass from that little girl you were before. You think you are a woman now. Strong and vicious and immortal. But you aren't. You are a ******** broken doll. Held together and nothing more. Men made you and it will be a man who ******** brings you down in the end. This isn't for you. You repulse me. This is anticipation. I want... I want to see you shatter again for me. And I will. But not ********. Because it's not you I need to do it."

Gripped in the throes of the memory that overtook her, Shasa could feel the odd streak of tears down her cheeks. Was it for herself? Was it for the woman - the self in the memory? How had things gotten to this point? How had she been so swept away by the rage and anger and the malice?

There was a part of her that felt nearly victorious. Every moment that he'd kept her close, allowed her to touch him, to press against him had been one more little triumph as far as Sasha was concerned. For a moment she believed she almost had him - that instant where she'd pressed her lips to his neck and he hadn't pulled away - and Sasha felt the thrill thrum through her. The pressure of his body against hers, his hands along the curves of her body, the harsh tone of voice: everything had her convinced that she'd won this battle, that he would be broken and destroyed beneath her feet. She could feel the goosebumps against her lips, and more than that there was a deep-seated satisfaction that he hadn't pulled away, he hadn't slapped her.

She would own him. He was magnificent, putrid hate, red hot rage, black soul. The urge to level everything he stood for was almost overwhelming. As Sasha's snapping blue gaze met his head-on, she heard his words. Everything he said sank in, deep and abrasive - but nothing really mattered, not so long as he kept her close, allowed her touch.

It was so easy to focus all of her anger, her hate, he disgust on this man - because he allowed it, reciprocated it.

It wasn't until he stood that something seemed to snap. Sasha tumbled to the floor, an odd look of disbelief etched across her face. It remained for the briefest moment - and then it was gone, replaced by something foul and ugly and furious.

How dare he.

Part of her was rational - the part of her that still sought acceptance, the part of her that still wanted to please, wanted to obey. Small as it was, deftly hidden so deep that it was easy to forget that it existed - it surged to the forefront of her mind.

Where is your dignity? Let him go. This is ridiculous. This isn't you - this isn't us. Just let him go, let him go, let him go.

That little, sane piece of her was crushed, taken to heel, dominated - swept under a rug.

The other part of her was a rage-infested, furiously vile black riptide that pulled away all remnants of common sense, of control, of rational thought.

"You hate what I do to you - yes, what I do. You hate that I can bring you so close to giving in." She seethed, hissing words filled with venomous hate. Each word she spat was roughly spoken, her voice deep and dark and filled with such blinding rage. Sasha rose to her feet, features contorted. No poise. No control.

Pure, vile hate.

"You act so high and mighty now, so in control. And yet," her eyes dropped down, a pointed look given to his waist before she lifted her eyes once more, sparking and spitting, "you aren't ******** man enough to take. Your words mean nothing - because your body speaks for itself."

Her breath was heavy, teeth bared. How dare he deny this. Each small victory that she'd felt before was diminishing by the second - for now, at least.

"You're a ******** boy playing a man's game."

Sasha's nostrils flared.

"Get out."

The last word erupted on a scream as fury ripped through her. Nona's totem flashed dangerously at her neck, almost shimmering with silver-violet violence.

It was vile and disgusting and so putrid that Shasa wanted to look away. She wanted to look away but she couldn't because then she might miss what happened next - and this, no matter how disgusting and vile it was - was a precious memory, one that she couldn't bear to let go of, one she couldn't bear to ignore.

I don't want you. Just like they didn't want you either. You will NEVER know how just how much man I am.

Those words hurt. Those words hurt more than she'd like to admit. Shasa didn't know why, she only knew that they did, and for an instant the rage and anger threatened to well up deep in her chest, threatened to choke her, threatened to suffocate each breath that whistled in her lungs.

As soon as he left, as soon as the door clicked behind him, Sasha became a woman unhinged, letting out a guttural, animalistic scream.

She hated, hated him. Not because of the way he talked to her, or the way he treated her. Not because of the fear he evoked when he was wielding Tracey, or because of how he'd tripped her, stolen her flute, landed her in the infirmary. She didn't hate him for any of these things - these were only a prelude to what they'd become.

Sasha hated him because he'd denied her. She couldn't fathom, couldn't rationalize why she felt the way that she did. Even Nona throbbed and pulsed at the back of her mind, white hot and blinding and so very, very needy.

Sasha hated him, and she wanted him. That dangerous edge, she craved it. He was held apart from Wash, separate from the precious little fragile thing she'd nurtured with the giving, warm, unassuming Moon. This was darker, dangerous, taboo, malicious. She wanted that dark fathomless piece of him he'd very nearly given in to. She needed it. She wanted to make him lose control, she needed to see him give in to her - and he'd denied her.

The moment the door shut she was reaching for a small teacup that rested on the nearby desk. It flew towards the door with lightning speed, splintering into a million tiny shards that rained down on the carpet. A small saucer followed, shattering as it collided with the door. The lamp followed, a small cup filled with pens and pencils. Three books from the library.

As the dust settled, Sasha forced a semblance of control over herself. She dabbed at her damp brow with a handkerchief before tucking it away. She straightened her hair. Straightened her clothes. Ignoring the mess on the floor, she let the base of the door shove the debris aside as she opened it.

A few moments later she was slipping into Wash's room. Soon enough her troubles were lost in the rhythmic shift of bodies and the subtle whisper of sheets on skin.

This other man - this other man was a haven. A safe place. So different than what she'd endured with the wild one. Warm, welcoming. There was no malice there. There was only safety and acceptance.

As the memory wound down, Shasa sat for a long, long time staring at the teapot that had been left behind. After countless minutes passed, Shasa finally reached for the small book and began to read.